


Architecture of the Minotaur’s Heart

by beenghosting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cabins, First Time, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenghosting/pseuds/beenghosting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something alive in Dean’s cabin. He can feel it. Under the floorboards, beneath the stairs that shouldn’t be there, where it’s dark. It beats like a heart. It changes its face in the middle of the night. It feels like it’s reaching out to him, and he has no idea why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break_ by Steven Sherrill. Heavily inspired by _House of Leaves_ by Mark Z. Danielewski. I took a lot of liberty with canon so this is a very loose s1/s2 divergent. **Please see endnotes for detailed warnings.**
> 
> \+ Unrelated, if you subscribed to me before, I had an AO3 mishap and had to delete my account, so your subscription is probably no longer active and you’ll have to subscribe again, sorry. **I’m also around[on Tumblr!](http://beenghosting.tumblr.com)**
> 
> \+ **Update:** The amazing [spn_posters](https://www.instagram.com/spn_posters/) on instagram has created [an awesome edit](https://www.instagram.com/p/BEpHFRwhSk8/) for this fic, and with their permission has let me include it. Please check out their graphics on instagram and give 'em some love!

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  3:32pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** Hey

Sorry for the late reply, midterms have been brutal. I talked to Jo on the phone earlier and she said you’re moving out of Bobby’s place? I know you’ve been busy but it would have been nice to hear that from you instead. Anyway, I’m still coming up this summer, so I hope your new place has a spare room. Send me pictures or something, I’d like to see it.

No, I haven’t been arrested for “hoarding dogs”, and I’m offended by your use of “yet.” I’m not dating anyone, I’m focusing on school. You can stop rolling your eyes. Tell me more antics of small-town life. How do you sleep with all the banjos playing in the distance?

Keep in touch,

Sam

 

///

 

The sound of frogs is almost deafening when Dean steps out of the truck. The ground dips under his boots, soft and muddy, and the sun warms his back from where it streams in through the trees. He swats at a fly. Behind him, the passenger door shuts.

“This is, um…” Donna comes to stand next to him. She nods, hands on her hips, then shakes her head. “No, I can’t do it. This place is a mess.”

“It’s a fixer-upper,” Dean says. Which is an understatement. Calling the building ‘dilapidated’ would be kind. Dean’s not even sure if it has a functioning bathroom. Ahead of them, something near the building snaps; a tree branch falling or the cabin settling roughly in the mid-afternoon heat. Or threatening to fall over if they keep staring at it.

“You’re telling me,” Donna says. She scrunches up her nose as she looks around the property. A fly tangles itself in her hair. She whacks it away, then gives a final nod and lets her hands drop off her hips. “Okee-dokee. Nothing’s going to get done if we stand around gawking like a bunch of horror-film actors. I’ll grab the kitchen stuff.”

 

///

 

It takes them the better part of the day to clean. They lay down buckets where the ceiling seems to leak. Dean tarps up the broken windows the best he can, brushing away cobwebs and picking up bird’s nests from the window sills. He leaves the rest open to air out the dusty, damp-wood smell, letting in the cacophony of frogs and the thick musk of swamp water. 

Upstairs he sweeps his bedroom floor and hangs up a curtain. He tosses down an air mattress, tucking it against the far wall, away from the window. He checks the bathroom’s taps. Water trickles out into the sink, clear and cool. He can have a shower at least, but the entire thing needs a facelift.

At noon they take a break to sit on the front porch.

“It’s not too bad,” Donna says around a mouthful of egg salad. “It has character.”

It’s a decent-sized cabin. Two bedrooms, one-and-a-half bathrooms, a small laundry room. The open-concept kitchen is what caught Dean’s eye. That, and the distance from the locals—far enough to get some privacy, but not far enough to be an inconvenience. Other cabins dot the woods along the gravel road, their roofs peeking out from the trees.

The place needs fixing. It needs a lot of fixing. But Dean’s hands have been getting restless, his skin’s itching now that there’s a lull and Bobby doesn’t have as much work for him. He makes a list of repairs on a napkin as he finishes his beer:

Before they leave to drop off the truck and bring Donna home, Dean pulls out his phone and tries to angle it to get the whole cabin in frame. With the sun setting behind the trees, it blots out the cabin’s details, casting them in shadow. He gives up after a few minutes and saves the least blurry photo.

 

///

 

That night, Dean stares up at the ceiling and listens to the frogs. Other than the fireflies hanging around the back porch and the moon glowing through the curtains, the cabin is dark. He props his leg up on a pillow under the thin sheet, wincing, the thick air getting under his skin and into the bones. Thunder rolls off in the distance.

Eventually the rain comes. The air cools and the frogs go quiet.

 

///

 

“Got one for ya,” Bobby says the next afternoon, rounding a beat up Camaro, something that looks suspiciously like a fax in his hand, hanging limply from the rain.

Dean drops a tire on top of the pile he’s been building and dusts off his palms, leaning against the shack door and grabbing his beer. “Hope it’s not another tractor.”

“Nah,” Bobby says, handing over the damp sheet of paper. “You’ll like this one.”

Dean takes a drink and reads over the information: Roger Hart has an old Mustang Fastback that needs a new transmission. He’s probably some old, rich geezer. The kind of guy who bought the thing trying to relive his youth, who couldn’t top up his windshield washer fluid if his life depended on it but will pay a pretty penny for someone else to do it. She’s a looker, too. ‘65, cherry red.

Dean nods. “All right.”

“All right?” Bobby asks.

“Yeah. Fine.” Dean goes back to his pile of tires.

“All right,” Bobby says. He takes the sheet of paper back and watches Dean for a moment. “You, uh. You settlin’ in okay?”

“Place leaks, floorboards are twisted to hell, windows need caulking, and I think something died in the kitchen,” Dean says. “And I’m pretty sure there’s a bird living in the rafters.”

He drops another tire and turns to look at Bobby, who watches him closely.

“I’m swell,” Dean flashes him a grin, then grabs another tire.

“Y’know, if you ever want me to give you another job, just say the word,” Bobby says.

Dean turns to him again. “What, like a hunt?”

Bobby shrugs. “If that’s what you need.”

Dean rubs at his knee and looks away. “I’m fine, Bobby.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “Okay. The parts are in. Guess I’ll call Mr. Hart.”

 

///

 

Working in Bobby’s scrapyard, the smell of dust and gasoline heavy in the air, Dean finds he’s able to relax in a way he hasn’t for a long time. The tension drains out of his muscles as he works, breathing comes a little easier. The rain patters noisily against the tin roof. He hums along to the cracked-out Skynyrd and Foreigner blaring through the radio and takes short breaks to drink from his bottle of beer.

“So it’s going to be another day at least?” Mr. Hart asks later, following Dean into the back and nervously playing with a ring on his hand.

“Sorry, man,” Dean says. “If we were just talking repairs, I could’ve stayed an extra hour and had her out of here this evening. But I’m rebuilding, and on a late start to boot. She should be ready tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Mr. Hart says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. Twists his ring again. The dude’s not what Dean pictured, and if he weren’t too rumple-suited, too goodie-goodie, Dean would’ve thought he stole the car and ditched the plates. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“All right,” Mr. Hart says finally, apparently making a decision. “Uh. Could I get a number for a motel?”

 

///

 

Dean makes the short drive into the town proper after closing up shop for the evening, shoulders aching and hands still dirty. Bobby had bid him goodnight with a grunt and a wave, digging through his library of books and trying to talk down some nervous hunter on the other end of the line.

Ellen takes one look at him when he enters the Roadhouse and says, “Wash.”

Dean raises his hands in surrender and heads to the bathroom to clean the grease off. When he comes back out there’s already a beer waiting for him on the bar by his regular seat, Jo throwing him a wink as he sits down.

“How’s it goin’?” Dean asks.

“It’s going,” Jo says, pretending to wipe down the bartop so her mom can’t scold her. “Mom called the cops on Anne Marie’s old flame, got him escorted off the property. He’s officially on our banned list. Mom’s been livid all day.”

“Sad I missed that,” Dean says.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Ash wanders out, the new chef following close behind, brandishing a small but awfully sharp-looking knife.

It’s not exactly threatening on its own, but Cain rolled into town three weeks ago riding an old black Harley and wearing a leather jacket. He’s got a grey god-beard and biblical tattoos sprawling over his knuckles and crawling up his arms. He goes by _Cain_ , for fuck’s sake. And he might not actually be a rogue Hell’s Angel, but Dean’s not about to ask questions.

“Steal from me again and you lose a finger,” Cain says.

“ _Cálmese, amigo_ ,” Ash says. “It was one little carrot.”

“It was _my_ little carrot.”

Jo snorts. Dean grins around the lip of his bottle. Cain shoots them both a glare before stalking back into the kitchen. Dean watches him leave, nibbling on his lip and turning his beer bottle in his hands. When he looks back Jo’s caught him staring. Dean clears his throat, takes a drink from his bottle. Jo opens her mouth to say something, but Ellen saves him, coming up from the basement with a case of beer.

“Bobby says you moved out of his place?” she asks.

“Yeah, couple days ago,” Dean says. “I, uh. Bought that little cabin up in the forest.”

Ellen hums and starts putting the beer away.

“Really?” he asks. “No concerned, motherly comments? Not even a judgmental look?”

“Nope.” Ellen straightens up and turns to Jo. “Honey, can you get me another case of this?”

“Huh. Y’know, Bobby kept telling me not to bother with it. He wouldn’t say why. Starting to think he just didn’t want the competition for his title of Town Hermit,” Dean snorts. “Anyway, I’ll take another one of those beers off your hands.”

 

///

 

The roads are pitch black at one in the morning. Dean drives with the windows down, music playing quietly and head still a little fuzzy. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have driven at all.

When he gets back, he parks the Impala and tucks his keys into his pocket. The cabin looms ahead of him in the dark. It doesn’t feel like home yet, so he turns on his heel and heads down the road. He needs the cool night air, the smell of rain drying, something to clear his head. The gravel crunches under his boots as he walks.

His knee starts to ache after ten minutes. He turns around and heads back. It seems even darker now that he’s not in his car. It’s enough to put his senses on high, even though the worst he’d probably run into out here is a bear, but old habits die hard, or whatever. Not that he really wants to run into a bear.

A light catches his eye when he reaches his drive. It hovers in his neighbor’s yard, still, near the porch. Dean stops to look at it. It’s small, too still, too dull to be a firefly. The light glows bright for a moment before dimming again, dropping in a quick swoop, and the faint smell of tobacco trails out onto the road. 

Dean relaxes. His neighbor doesn’t say anything. Dean keeps walking.

 

///

 

He dreams that night.

He dreams of breaking glass and crushed metal. He dreams of yellow eyes. Black smoke. A woman’s laugh. He dreams of—there’s screeching tires and—he dreams of something crushing his chest. He dreams of a woman with pale skin and dark hair and soft lips, and he—there’s blood on his hands and a dead body at his feet. The man with yellow eyes holds him against the wall and sneers in his face and Sam grabs the gun off the floor and then there’s a loud—

The cabin bangs, settling, and Dean jolts awake. It takes him a minute to regain his bearings. He slips out of bed and wanders into the bathroom to wash his face before heading downstairs to pour himself a shot of whiskey, downing it in one go, staring out the kitchen window.

The cabin creaks quietly in the night breeze. The darkness is encompassing, pressing in on every side, surrounding him. It makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat, the hairs on his arms stand on end. He pours himself another shot.

When he shuffles back into his room, he notices it. There’s a crack in the window over his bed. He inspects it, running his fingers along the glass. It’s broken right through, but there’s no blood, no impact, no sign that something flew into the window while he was sleeping.

Dean sighs and heads back downstairs to grab a spare tarp.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@ stanford.edu) |  7:03pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** Stop gossiping about me  
1 attachment | IMG_1067.jpg

Yeah I moved out of his place. Sorry I didn’t tell you but it was kind of spur of the moment. I bought a cabin up in the woods. Bobby kept telling me not to buy it. It’s falling apart but I’m going to fix it up. I attached a picture. Place has a guestroom downstairs with your name on it. You’ll be happy I got wifi today. Haven’t run into a single guy with a banjo or anyone threatening to make me squeal like a pig. Stop studying and get laid, Mother Theresa.

 

///

 

  
From: Sam [7:43pm]  
Who are you, Rustin Parr?

  


  
To: Sam [7:50pm]  
Shut up, you love it.

 

///

 

Dean meets his neighbor on a Thursday.

It’s the first day it hasn’t rained since he’s moved into the cabin, sunshine streaming into his room from behind the curtains. So he gets up early, fiddles with the new coffee maker until it makes something that sort of resembles coffee, and eats breakfast. Outside he spends ten minutes talking himself into climbing up a ladder, and finally starts fixing the rotting roof. The sun is warm against his back, the radio playing loud so he can hear it over his hammer.

Most of the cabins in the area are empty until summer. Then the suits from the big cities drive down with their wives and their two-point-five children to spend the summer putting on barbeques and getting sunburned and harassed by mosquitos. But a few are owned by locals. Sheriff Mills lives in one with a small horse paddock a few roads over. Benny has a cottage just minutes away, with a small shack where he smokes the best damn hickory salmon Dean’s ever tasted.

Then there’s his neighbor. He lives in the tiny cabin on the corner where the road turns into forest. Dean’s seen the guy around town, smoking outside the café and reading books the size of bricks, looking like he crawled out of bed and didn’t bother to change out of his rumpled jeans and faded shirt before leaving home. Dean’s lived in this town nearly a year and he’s never properly met the guy before.

But today—some random, uneventful Thursday—the guy wanders out of his cabin to stand at the end of Dean’s drive. Shielding his eyes from the sun, cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, the guy shouts, “Do you mind keeping it down?”

Dean barely hears him, only noticing he’s even there when he turns around to grab another beer.

“Can I help you?” Dean calls out.

The guy points to his ear. The sleeve of his oversized hoodie rolls down his arm. Dean turns down the radio.

“People do live out here, you know,” the guy says, grabbing his cigarette. His voice is deep, rough.

“Uh. Yeah, I’m aware,” Dean says.

“Odd way of showing it.”

“Right. Okay,” Dean says. “Uh. Sorry.”

Asshole.

The guy sighs. Then he frowns at the cabin.

“I think you have a bird nesting in your window,” he says.

“Fuck. Still?” Dean asks, putting down his hammer. “Which window?”

“The upper-right one.”

Dean stops. “Buddy, there’s only one upper window at the front of the cabin.”

“Really?” the guy blows out a stream of smoke. “Because I’m currently looking at two.”

Okay. This guy’s nuts. This guy’s nuts, and Dean left his gun inside. Typical.

Dean sighs and grabs the ladder. He stands up on shaky legs and makes his way carefully down to the ground, holding onto the sides of the ladder probably harder than necessary. The guy’s still standing at the end of his drive, arms folded over his chest, looking bored, looking just as rumpled up close, but now Dean can see his stubble and his blue eyes. There’s an air about him, like he knows he’s a mess but doesn’t give a shit. Which is kind of hot.

No, wait—not hot. The guy’s an asshole.

Dean rolls his eyes and turns around to look at the cabin and nearly falls over.

There’s another window. The original window, the one over the front door, it’s still there. But now there’s another one. The same shape, the same size as the first one, pressing into the front of the cabin where his bedroom is.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

“How did you fail to notice an entire window?” the guy asks.

“That—no. That thing wasn’t there when I—” Dean shakes his head. It couldn’t have been there when he first moved in. His room had two windows. People don’t just miss entire fucking windows.

Unless it was. Unless it’s always been there, and he’s been too focused on everything else that he did, somehow, completely miss an entire window’s existence. Too tired to pay attention, or too many drinks making his vision funny, or something.

“It looks like a sparrow, by the way,” the guy drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. Dean looks at him. The guy nods to the nest. “The bird. It’s a sparrow’s nest.”

 

///

 

Dean checks his bedroom. The sunlight warms the floor, makes the room bright and open-looking, though that’s probably largely due to the overwhelming lack of furniture. He rests his hand a moment on the windowsill. He looks around the room, tries to retrace his steps from the day he moved in. There’s a curtain hanging in one window, a tarp on the other. The rest of the details are lost.

Dean cleans up the bird’s nest.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  2:10pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** Need answer ASAP  
1 attachment | IMG_1070.jpg

Please tell me you notice something different and I’m not just going crazy.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  3:33pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** re: Need answer ASAP 

You peeled off half the shingles? I’m not going to lie, the place doesn’t look less lopsided and condemned in the daylight.

So, let me guess. This isn’t going to be all fixed up by the time I get there, is it? Only, I’m allergic to hard labor. I have a doctor’s note.

Sam

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  3:40pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** re: Need answer ASAP

There’s two upstairs windows. 

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)|  3:43pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** re: Need answer ASAP

Okay? There were always two upstairs windows. You need to stay out of Bobby’s liquor cabinet. I’m not sure all that stuff is booze.

Sam

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  3:44pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** re: Need answer ASAP

No there wasn’t. There was only one.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  3:46pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** re: Need answer ASAP

Look at the first photo you sent me again. There’s two.

You feeling okay?

Sam

 

///

 

Dean opens the first picture he took of the cabin.

It’s a little a little dark and a little blurry, a little hard to make out, but it’s unmistakable.

There are two windows.


	2. Chapter 2

At six in the morning, there’s a light fog rolling off the swamp, seeping in between the trees.

Dean gives up trying to sleep. He tries to rub away the after-images left behind from his dreams. Some dead girl in a white dress attacking him in a graveyard. Some crazed, foaming-out-the-mouth woman biting Sam on the neck. Granted, nightmares were never far in his line of work. But these are a whole new breed; his hands still feel sticky with blood that isn’t there.

He sits on the front porch and watches morning creep in. At a quarter to seven, a woman wanders past, towards the direction of his neighbor’s cabin. He watches, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders, stride determined. She stops at the end of his drive, noticing him, and turns to face him.

Dean lifts a hand in a wave.

“Is… Cas—is he home?” she asks, hesitating, like the name feels odd in her mouth.

“Uh,” Dean says. “Probably?”

The woman nods and starts walking again. Dean frowns. So not only is his neighbor a weird-ass, but so are his friends, apparently. Birds of a feather. Dean rubs his eyes. It’s too early for this shit.

At eight, he grabs his car keys and heads into town.

 

///

 

“Whoa. No offense, but you look like shit,” Kevin says when Dean limps his way up to the counter.

“Morning to you, too, Kev.” Dean slides into a chair next to Charlie and scratches his hand through his hair. He stretches out his leg and winces when his knee pops.

“He’s… kinda right,” Charlie makes a face at him from behind her laptop screen. “Are you okay?”

“I need a bathtub full of coffee,” Dean says.

He bumped into a man outside. Dean could have sworn his eyes had flicked to black. But when he blinked they were back to normal, and the guy just asked if he was okay. Dean’s losing it.

Charlie looks up at Kevin, who says, “Triple-shot espresso coming up.”

Dean nods and rubs his eyes, yawning.

“So. Spill,” Charlie says, pushing her bag out of the way when Kevin slides a large mug onto the counter and gives Dean a thumbs up to indicate it’s on the house.

“Thanks,” Dean grabs the mug and warms his hands with it. “I’m fine. Just slept like shit.”

“Too much coffee,” Charlie gestures to his mug.

“Nah. I think it’s the cabin. Y’know, new place, it’s kinda weird. Settles different. Just not used to it, or something.”

Neither of them say anything. Charlie’s turned back to her laptop, typing away a response to a pop-up window and frowning at the screen, and Kevin starts cleaning out the espresso machine with a cloth that’s seen better days.

Boring line of conversation. Duly noted.

Dean huffs out a laugh. “I dunno. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe,” Kevin says.

Charlie nods. “Probably.”

“You guys should come see it, though,” Dean says, playing with a strap on Charlie’s bag. “I know it’s kinda creepy but maybe you could give me some suggestions on how to fix it up nice.”

“See what?” Charlie asks.

Dean looks at her. “The—the cabin. The one I just moved into?”

“Oh,” Charlie says. “Right.”

She goes back to typing. Dean frowns and looks to Kevin, who doesn’t seem to notice. After a few minutes another customer comes in and he’s distracted again.

Dean shakes his head and lets them go about their thing, rubbing at his eyes again and downing the rest of his coffee.

 

///

 

Dean hammers his thumb twice, snags his jeans on an exposed nail, almost shoots himself in the foot with the nail gun, and spends at least ten minutes recovering after he trips over a bundle of shingles and nearly falls right off the roof. After this he’s never leaving the damn ground.

He’s just getting the courage to start working again, tossing an empty beer bottle back into the case and cranking the radio up even louder when he hears it:

“Can you keep it down?”

Dean looks over the edge of the roof. His neighbor stares up at him, face pinched in annoyance, his hair in its apparently permanent state of bed-ridden rat-nest. He exhales smoke and taps the ash of his cigarette onto the ground. The sun is blazing and the flies are particularly bad this afternoon, and Dean’s really not in the mood.

“Dude, it’s two in the afternoon,” he says.

“So?” the guy says.

“So, last I checked there ain’t a noise curfew,” Dean says.

The guy looks away, frowning at something Dean can’t see, tilting his head slightly.

“You got rid of the nest,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Is the bird all right?”

“How the hell should I know?”

The guy frowns again. Then he asks, “Is your entire roof rotting?”

It takes Dean a minute to catch up. Right, the roof. Dean looks down at it, double-checking to make sure it’s there and still rotting under his boots. He looks back up and nods, and the guy moves toward the ladder.

“It’ll take you at least a week to do it on your own,” he says. “Longer with the rain coming.”

“Yeah, and it’ll take me even longer if you keep coming over to bitch at me,” Dean says.

The guy’s mouth twitches into a grin. “Touché.”

Dean stares at him.

“Do you have any extra tools?” the guy asks. He throws his cigarette away and reaches for the ladder. He disappears from view for a moment and the ladder rattles gently. When he appears again he steps off the ladder on sure feet. He walks across the roof, steady despite the height, until he’s standing barely a foot away.

“What?” Dean says. He fights the urge to take a step back—probably right off the roof.

“This will go a lot faster if you have another pair of hands.”

“You want to help?” Dean asks.

The guy says, “Well, the less time I have to spend listening to you sing off-key to rock music, the better.”

“I don’t sing off-key,” Dean says.

The guy looks at him and doesn’t say anything. Fine, okay.

“Tools are over there,” Dean points. “Most of the rotting is on the right side.”

“All right.” The guy grabs a pry bar and sets to work on removing nails and tearing up a patch of rotten wood. He takes to the task easily, arm muscles working as he snaps the wood off in large chunks, using his fingers to work the nails out, and tosses it down onto the ground where Dean has a pile going.

Dean watches him for a moment. “Cas, right?”

“Yes.”

“You a roofer, Cas?” Dean asks.

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dean says. “So what do you do?”

“I volunteer, mostly,” Cas says, cracking another piece of wood and tossing it away.

“Doing what?”

“Mondays, I clean cat cages at the shelter. I assist with Bingo games at the retirement home on Tuesday evenings,” Cas tosses a few nails into the nearby bucket. “Wednesday mornings I collect honey at Hevel Farm. Thursdays are my weekdays off.”

“It’s Friday,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “And Friday afternoons, I guess I help ill-tempered locals with their rotten roofs.”

Dean stares at him. Cas stops prying at wood a moment to stare back.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. I forgot.”

Dean frowns.

Cas wipes his hand on his jeans. Then he holds it out and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Dean.”

 

///

 

It starts to rain just as the sun sets that evening. Dean thought the frogs were loud before. He has two options: shut the windows and roast, or keep them open and listen to eerie screeching all night. Either way, he loses sleep.

He leaves the windows open. He manages to find a rotating floor fan in one of the few boxes he packed up from Bobby’s, shoved away in a closet downstairs. He knocks over a shelf in the process of getting it out and decides to just leave it.

He turns back to head upstairs and stops in his tracks. There’s a door in the kitchen.

Dean hesitates a moment before reaching out for the handle, turning it cautiously and letting the door creak open. It’s just a pantry inside. An empty patch of floors and walls. There aren’t even any shelves. The only thing inside it is a long, silver blade.

Frowning, Dean bends down and picks it up. It’s cool in his hands. Heavier than it looks.

“Weird,” he says, shaking his head. This place is full of surprises, apparently.

He takes the blade and closes the door behind him.

 

///

 

“I never met the guy before and he knows who I am,” Dean says. “Sammy, too. Knows I moved out of Bobby’s and that Sam’s in school.”

“Maybe he knows someone you know,” Donna says, lifting her milkshake to take a noisy sip.

They move slowly through a maze of second-hand furniture, squeezing past beaten-up wooden chairs and scratched-to-hell tables and desks. Donna flips each tag over to check the price as she passes. Dean sets a hand atop tabletops and chair backs to test for a wobble.

“Nah, I asked him,” he says. “He just said he heard it somewhere.”

Donna hums around her straw. “Well, it’s a small town, Dean. People hear about each other. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna go all Mark David Chapman on you.”

“I’m not looking to file a restraining order, I’m just saying it’s weird, is all.”

“Don’t you worry,” Donna shoulder bumps him playfully. “He starts acting funny and you gimme a holler and I’ll be by in a jiffy, sirens blaring. You know that. Oh, what about this one? It goes with the couch, right?”

“I don’t need another table, Bobby already gave me one,” Dean says.

“He gave you a _kitchen_ table, silly. This here’s a coffee table.” Donna flips the tag over. “Pretty reasonable price to boot. This and a couple of end tables, some book shelves and a nice arm chair and you’ve got yourself a living room.”

“I don’t have any books,” Dean says.

Donna just looks at him. “You let me worry about that.”

 

///

 

On Sunday Dean spends most of the afternoon in Bobby’s garage, working on a ride-on mower engine and cursing the damn thing every five minutes. The radio keeps fritzing out with the rain and Dean’s never liked working in silence. He gives the mower a swift kick with his good leg just as Bobby comes into the shop, takes one look at him, and lets out a long sigh.

They head to the Roadhouse together.

It’s busy, the rain steering people indoors, looking for entertainment and alcohol to keep them warm. A few of the local game hunters shoot pool in the back, already well on their way to drunk and rowdy. Benny manages to coerce Cain into playing a round or two with the promise of free salmon. Dean watches them until Cain gives up after a round and comes to lick his wounded pride at the bar.

“Tough break,” Dean says. “Benny’s a slippery son of a bitch.”

“Dean learned that the hard way,” Jo says. “How much did you lose in poker again?”

“Shut up, he cheated.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve played anything,” Cain says, nursing his beer. Dean eyes his hands, the tattoos sprawling across his knuckles, at the old-timey font reading ABEL on his left hand.

He’d asked about the tattoos once, shortly after Cain arrived, feeling overly confident on way too much tequila. Saw the Genesis verses and joked inappropriately about Bible study. Probably could have earned himself a black eye, but Cain was patient with him, let him ramble on until Dean tired himself out and Ash had to drag him into a cab and send him back to Bobby’s.

Cain finishes his beer and grabs his jacket off the bar stool.

“Before you go,” Ellen says, stopping mid-conversation with Bobby. “A woman was in here lookin’ for you earlier. Said her name was Abby.”

Cain stops. “What did you tell her?”

“Said I’d never heard of you,” Ellen says. “Figure if she’s a friend of yours, you’d find her.”

“Thank you,” Cain says. He gives them all a nod and walks out the door. Dean watches him leave.

“You go sniffing after trouble like that and you’re gonna get bit,” Jo says.

Dean frowns at her. “What?”

She nods in the direction of the door and says, “You have a habit of sleeping with bad news.”

“Name one person who was _bad news_ ,” Dean says.

“Well, Anne Marie, for starters. That FBI guy who was tracking you for credit card fraud. Who was the journalist student with the seven-foot pet rock again?” Jo asks.

Fair enough.

“Okay, so I’ve had a few mishaps and got my ass kicked a few times,” Dean says. “Who hasn’t?”

Jo stares at him.

“Why are you so invested in my currently non-existent sex life, anyway?” Dean asks.

“I wouldn’t be if you didn’t insist on using the Roadhouse as your pick-up zone,” Jo says. Then she relents with a sigh. “I’m just saying, maybe don’t go after the guy who’s got over twenty years on you and is probably wanted for murder.”

Dean rubs at his knee and doesn’t say anything.

 

///

 

That night he dreams of a man with a mischievous grin, candy bars tucked into the front pocket of his shirt. He dreams of—there’s pain and blood and someone holding him down. He dreams of rows of men in orange suits. An old, grey woman who makes hearts stop. Blood and hands on his shoulders and hands at his neck and—he dreams of dust and rotten wood and Sam’s back bleeding through his shirt. He dreams of gates and traps and a blond girl with black eyes killing everyone in sight, the edge of her knife dripping red.


	3. Chapter 3

 

///

 

The windows come in on Monday. Before the new shower, which Dean grumbles to himself about, not looking forward to having to put up with shitty water pressure even longer. He signs for the delivery, then hauls the windows into the cabin and sets to work peeling off the tarps while the weather is still willing to cooperate.

When he nearly breaks the second window going up the front steps, he takes a few minutes to reprioritize his list of repairs. The shower can wait; the steps are out to kill him.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to replace two windows. By the end of the day he’s sitting out on the porch, legs propped on the banister with a sandwich and a cold beer in his lap, listening to the satisfying zap of mosquitos flying into the light.

Just as the sky starts to turn orange, there’s the rumble of a small engine tearing down the road. It slows as it draws closer, getting louder, until finally the source appears, pulling into Dean’s drive.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Dean says, shifting to stand up.

Cas kills the engine and rounds the front of the vehicle, bending over the sidecar—it has a fucking _sidecar_ —to pull out a cardboard box. Dean watches, dumbfounded, as Cas shifts the box under his arm and makes his way up to the porch.

“A Vespa?” Dean asks. “Seriously?”

Cas glances over his shoulder towards the scooter. “It was on sale.”

Dean opens his mouth to snap something witty, but then Cas unbuckles his helmet and pulls it off, laying it on top of the box so he can scrape a hand through his hair, and anything he was going to say dies on his lips. Dean clears his throat as Cas climbs up to the porch, careful to avoid the wobbly step, and comes to stand in front of him.

“Hello,” he says.

“Uh. Hi,” Dean says. He nods to Cas’s arms. “What’s with the box?”

“They’re for you,” Cas says, taking his helmet back and handing over the box. Dean nearly drops it; the thing weighs a ton. Cas continues, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket as he says, “Sheriff Hanscum said you needed new reading material.”

Fucking Donna. “I’m not much of a reader.”

Cas’s lips quirk. “She thought you would say that. She told me not to believe a word of it. Some of them are hers. The rest are ones I picked up from the second-hand bookshop on the way home from the shelter.”

“There’s a second-hand bookshop?” Dean asks, setting the box down.

“Yes,” Cas says. “I believe your friend Charlie works there.”

“I thought that was the library,” Dean says. “No wonder she charged me to take out a book.”

“So you do read,” Cas says.

“No.”

Cas eyes him for a moment. “You’re… a very strange man. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I usually take it as a compliment,” Dean says.

“That’s good,” Cas says, “because I meant it as one.”

Dean clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly, looking away. “Thanks. Uh. For the books.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Cas keeps watching him, corner of his mouth turned up like Dean’s some amusing farm animal at a petting zoo. Though he has to admit, this is a lot nicer than putting up with Cas’s griping about the noise.

“You, uh. You wanna beer?” Dean asks.

“Thank you, I’d like that,” Cas says.

Dean gestures towards the extra chair and Cas sits down, stretching his legs out in front of him. Dean grabs two beers from the cooler and hands one over. The tips of Cas’s finger touch his when he takes the bottle, and Dean carefully steps over Cas’s legs to get back in his own chair.

“Do you mind me asking why you walk with a limp?” Cas asks.

Dean blinks. “Wow. You just bulldoze past Small Talk and right into Trauma Zone, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry if that was insensitive,” Cas says.

Dean watches him for a moment. Cas waits, drinking his beer slowly, obviously curious but patient. Not many people know the full story—only Bobby, who was there at the hospital when Dean woke up, and Sam. But even to them a few of the details are lost.

The others, Charlie and Kevin, Ellen and Jo, even they have had run-ins with this sort of thing. They won’t balk at the mention of werewolves and ghosts and shapeshifters. Of Dean’s life _before_ , of the shit he did—the shit he had to do—to stay alive out there.

Dean swallows down a mouthful of beer.

“Got in a fight,” he says. “Compound fracture in the leg, and took a lead pipe to the knee.”

Cas winces in sympathy.

“Didn’t heal quite right,” Dean says. “It’s stiff most days. Sometimes it gets bad before it rains.”

“So you moved to North Carolina?” Cas asks, amused.

Dean shrugs. “Bobby lives here. What about you?”

“What about me?” Cas asks.

“I’unno. Tell me somethin’ about you,” Dean says. “Family, friends?”

“Yes, I have those,” Cas says.

Dean waits. When it doesn’t seem like Cas is going to elaborate, he says, “Okay. And?”

“And what?”

Jesus Christ. “Tell me about them?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Cas says, turning his beer bottle in his hands. “I haven’t seen them for a long time.”

“Who are you closest to?” Dean asks.

“Anna, I suppose. And Gabriel,” Cas says.

“Great,” Dean says. “Where are they?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas says. “As I said, it’s been a long time.”

Dean nods. He hasn’t seen Sam for a long time, either. Days stretched into weeks stretched into months. There were weekends and holidays, and sometimes Dean drove to California just to pop in, just to annoy Sam and pull him away from studying. But after that first time, after spending nearly four years without a word from him, sometimes all Dean needed was a text message with Sam’s name attached to it. Maybe it’s like that.

Or maybe Cas’s family isn’t like Sam. Out here, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees and foul-smelling swamp and deafening frogs, it’s a getaway. A place to escape. To run. To hide from all the bad shit that happens in life.

“Out here,” Cas continues after a moment. “I can’t really explain it, but out here, I feel closer to them.”

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  11:12am  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** Visit

Hey,

So my classes are done in a month. I’ll be driving over as soon as my last one is out. I hope your guestroom is at least semi-liveable? You’re not going to make me work for a place to sleep or anything like that, are you?

I talked to Jo the other day. She said you have a crush on the new Roadhouse chef. Who is at least twice your age and is probably in a bike gang. Seriously, Dean, are we going to have to have an intervention?

Sam

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  1:40pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** re: Visit

Repairs have been delayed due to rain. It’s coming but it’s slow-going. Neighbor has been helping a bit. Guestroom semi-liveable. You’re helping whether you like it or not. I don’t have a crush on anybody because I’m not a twelve year old girl and you need to stop talking about me with Jo.

Go study or something.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  2:01pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** re: Visit

So that’s a yes to the crush on the biker then. Noted.

Sam

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  2:13pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** re: Visit

Changed my mind. You’re not allowed to come here.

 

///

 

Charlie’s got a square-looking wooden thing sitting on the floor next to her table. Her laptop is out, as usual, and several of her heavy paperback videogame books are spread across the table top. Across from her Kevin nurses a coffee and uses what little space is left to do his homework.

“Why did you bring a desk to the café?” Dean asks, sliding into the booth next to Kevin.

“Dude, it’s not a desk,” Charlie says. “It’s a nightstand. Seriously, go back to kindergarten.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Why did you bring a _nightstand_ to the café? Are you on a date?”

Charlie glares at him. “It’s for you, asshole. But if you don’t want it I’ll just take it back home with me.”

Dean nudges the nightstand with his foot. It skids across the floor a bit, but it’s sturdy enough. It’ll beat having to walk across his room to turn his alarm off first thing in the morning, at least. Charlie takes his grunt as approval and beams at him, going for her giant mug of cappuccino.

“Christ. Did Donna round up the whole town to help me move in?” Dean asks.

“She said you don’t have a bed,” Charlie says.

“I have a bed,” Dean says. “Now, anyway. And a couch and a coffee table, and a fuckton of books I’ll probably never be able to read in one lifetime.”

“Oh, right, that reminds me,” Charlie says. “Cas is your neighbor?”

“Met him, did you?”

Charlie nods. “He’s a regular at the shop. Since when is he your neighbor?”

“Uh,” Dean says. “Since I moved?”

“I just mean, why didn’t you say anything?” Charlie asks.

“Chai latte with cinnamon and chocolate,” Kevin says, not looking up from his textbook.

“What?” Dean asks.

“That’s what he orders,” Kevin says. “Sorry. Sometimes I only remember people by what they order.”

“That’s—okay.”

“He’s kinda cute,” Charlie says. “For a dude. And a potentially mass-murdering hermit.”

“And a drug addict,” Kevin says.

“He’s not cute,” Dean says. “I mean, a murderer. He’s not—wait, what?”

“You didn’t know?” Kevin says.

“It never really came up.”

Kevin just nods. Dean looks to Charlie, who shrugs.

“It was town gossip for a while,” she says.

“Right,” Dean says. “I try to avoid hearing that stuff.”

“Worried what people might be saying about you?” Charlie grins. “Seriously, though. He’s a nice guy. You know him?”

“Not well, “Dean says. “He’s come over a few times to help with repairs.”

“You should get to know him better,” Charlie says. “I think you’d like him.”

“Sure,” Dean looks at the nightstand and clears his throat. “Anyway. I’m, uh. I’m gonna get this home.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, face falling. “Okay. You need a hand?”

“Nah, I got it. Thanks, kiddo,” Dean gives her what he hopes is a convincing smile and bends down to scoop up the nightstand.

 

///

 

There’s a cat on Cas’s front porch. It’s fluffy and what Dean calls orange but everyone else calls _ginger_. There’s a cat, a wood wind chime, a hanging birdfeeder, and a glass ashtray sitting on the porch railing. There are plants lined up on either side of the steps. Flowers and ferns and bushes of things Dean doesn’t know the name of. They’ve been interlaced with large rocks and pieces of broken pottery, laid out artfully. Jesus, the guy _gardens_.

He knocks on the front door before he can second-guess himself.

There’s the sound of footsteps, the door handle turning, and then the door swings open and Dean’s staring at the woman with dark, wavy hair, who wandered down the road at seven in the morning to see if Cas was home.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

“Uh, hey,” Dean says. “Is Cas—”

“Yes,” she says. She doesn’t move, just keeps looking at him oddly. Dean tries to see over her shoulder but she pulls the door tighter against herself.

“Can I… talk to him?” he asks.

“We’re busy,” she says, just as there’s a voice behind her and the door opens further. She turns to look at Cas, who gives her a nod, and with a last look at Dean, she wanders back into the cabin.

Cas steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind himself. He’s got his oversized hoodie on, and a pair of old, mismatched striped socks. His hair is as bedraggled as ever.

“Friend of yours?” Dean asks.

“Hannah,” Cas says. “Yes. She’s been very kind.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean says. Cas looks at him but doesn’t say anything. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, a spread-winged eagle on the logo, and offers one to Dean, who shakes his head, before popping one into his mouth and lighting it.

“I, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “Started one of the books you gave me.”

Cas’s mouth twitches. “Oh? Which one?”

“Uh. The one about the, uh—the cowboy. With the crow on the cover.”

“That’s an enjoyable series,” Cas nods. “Long, but worth the effort.”

“Yeah,” Dean shuffles awkwardly.

Cas exhales and tilts his head at him. “Do you need something?”

Yes—no. He just wants to talk to the guy, maybe hang out, have a beer. He doesn’t have to have a reason to be over here. People do that shit all the time. Dean’s not exactly positive, but he’s pretty sure that’s how people make friends these days. Maybe.

Instead he says, “You know shit about gardens?”

 

///

 

Dean listens to the radio as he cooks a pot of pasta. It’s a bit faded, a bit more static-filled out here, contending with the trees. Even with the window open the sound breaks in and out every couple of minutes, at the end of “Baba O'Riley” when the song really picks up, and at the start of “Crazy Train” when the guitar first comes in. Eventually Dean gives up fiddling with the knobs and the antenna.

He dragged a box of his old cassette tapes out of the Impala the other day when he had a day off. It was raining and his fingers were itching with the need to do something. He sorted them alphabetically by band, chronologically by album release date, and left the box on the floor in the kitchen pantry.

Dean turns the burner up higher and grabs a can of diced tomatoes on his way. The radio fizzes out again and doesn’t come back. Storm in the distance, maybe. Typical. Dean mutters under his breath and yanks open the pantry door.

He drops the can of tomatoes.


	4. Chapter 4

  
To: Sam [6:48pm]  
ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE.

  


  
From: Sam [6:55pm]  
I’m in the middle of an exam.

  


  
To: Sam [6:55pm]  
EMERGENCY.

  


  
From: Sam [7:02pm]  
Call 911.

  


  
To: Sam [7:02pm]  
NOT FUNNY ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE.

  


  
From: Sam [7:03pm]  
I CAN’T.  
Go to Bobby’s. I’ll call as soon as I can.

 

///

 

After what feels like twenty minutes of pounding the door and listening to the guard dogs bark in the back, the front light flicks on and Bobby’s face appears in the window, looking dark and piss-sour. The look fades the second he sees Dean, the door wrenching open and Bobby stepping outside.

“Jesus, boy. You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

“There’s something wrong with the cabin,” Dean barges his way inside. He starts pacing a tight circle on the rug, legs wobbly as he wears grooves into the fabric with his boots. He grabs at his hair and shakes his head. “Something seriously fucked up, Bobby.”

Bobby watches him pace.

“It’s—it’s _changing_ ,” Dean says. “I opened the pantry in the kitchen and now there’s stairs leading nowhere. And—and when I first got there, I swear my bedroom only had one window. But there’s _three_ , and there was only one in front and now there’s two, and I sent pictures to Sam and both of them—they’re the same, but I fucking _swear_ —”

“Okay, calm down a minute,” Bobby says, hands out, cautious. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“The cabin! My fucking cabin!” Dean says. “It’s fucking—haunted or _alive_ or something!”

Bobby tenses, hands dropping to his sides. He shakes his head and looks away, towards the office where his desk is overflowing with papers and books and way too many mugs. Probably not all of them coffee.

“How much you had to drink?” he asks.

Dean drops his hands from his head. “Seriously?”

“I’m just askin’.”

“You’re gonna bring this up now?” Dean asks. “I’m not drunk, Bobby!”

“Okay, well you’re talkin’ nonsense,” Bobby says. “Maybe you need a break, huh? I been working you too hard. Take the weekend off, get some rest.”

“I’m not tired, Bobby, there’s something wrong with my fucking cabin!” Dean snaps. “Jesus Christ. Why is this like pulling teeth with you people, huh? The second I bought that place people started acting funny about it. Anytime I mention it. You, and Ellen, fucking Charlie and Kevin. But when I ask questions no one says a damn thing.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything, just avoids his eye.

“I’m a hunter, I can handle it!” Dean says. “So what is it? Witches? It’s fucking witches, isn’t it. I fucking _hate_ witches.”

“You’re just tired,” Bobby says again, still not looking him in the eye. “Take the weekend off, sleep in some. Maybe take Donna out to see a movie. You’ll feel better.”

He reaches up and gives Dean’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before brushing past and moving into the office. Dean stares at the space Bobby occupied two seconds earlier, before pushing past him and apparently ignoring the fact that Dean was having a mental breakdown, just cracking right apart in front of him.

“Y’know,” he says, turning to face Bobby again. “My whole life, growing up, I always knew you’d have my back. When Dad was being an ass, or when Sammy hurt my feelings about something stupid, I’d just call you up and you’d tell me it was okay.”

Bobby doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to look at him.

“But I’m telling you, Bobby. There’s something wrong here, and you’re not listening.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything. One of his telephones ring—the FBI one. Bobby reaches for it and Dean stomps out the front door. He slams it shut and limps to his car on still-shaking legs. He cranks up the radio and peels out of the driveway, wheels spinning and rocks pinging off the ground.

 

///

 

When Dean was younger, and he and Sam were stuck in a library in some Midwestern town, talking down a cell phone to their dad who was trying to kill that week’s Something or Other, Dean found a book. It was old and beaten up, thumbed through and well-used. The thin plastic crap that’s universal to library books crinkled under his fingers.

He read through it out of boredom, waiting for the next phone call. It was a children’s book, with complete bastardizations of Greek myths so they had some After School Special message about sharing or not judging others, some crap like that.

The story that stuck with Dean was about a man with the head of a bull. He lived in the center of a labyrinth so complicated that even the architect who built it could barely find his way back out of it.

The beast—the Minotaur, it was called—was said to be evil. A violent monster who attacked and devoured anyone who tried to pass through. That everyone who dared try would meet their end by its horns. People believed it would take someone truly brave—a hero—to slay it and pass through the labyrinth successfully.

The hero eventually came. He managed to kill the Minotaur. But as he walked through the labyrinth, going deeper and deeper, he quickly became lost. And eventually, this dude, this hero, he realized that the Minotaur wasn’t hurting people, he was just trying to help them find their way back out.

And twelve year old, freckle-faced Dean, some snot-nosed punk with a shotgun, who spent his entire childhood looking monsters and spooks in the face, he had nightmares for weeks because of that stupid story.

 

///

 

The Roadhouse is empty.

Dean bumps into Anne Marie as he’s walking through the door. She inhales sharply and steps back, frowning at him, reaching up to pull her coat tighter over herself. Dean mutters an apology and she relaxes.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just—”

“It’s fine,” Dean says.

She hesitates a minute. “Are you okay?”

Dean shrugs and gives her a grin. “Nothing a few shots of whiskey can’t cure.”

She offers him a small smile in return, gently patting his arm before shifting her purse over her shoulder and walking outside. Dean closes the door and walks towards his usual stool, where Ellen is wiping down the bartop and watching him with her patent Worried Mom look.

“You okay, sweetie?” she asks when he sits down.

“Whiskey,” he says. Then adds, “Please.”

Ellen stops wiping. “I asked you a question.”

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. “Not really, but I’d rather not talk about it.”

“All right, then no whiskey.”

Dean snorts. “I think I got herpes.”

“Don’t get smart with me, kid,” Ellen pulls two glasses and a bottle off the shelf. She pours him a drink and slides it into his hands before pouring herself one. “You don’t wanna talk, that’s fine. But you still gotta show me respect.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry,” Dean says. He tips the glass in thanks and downs it in one go. She pours him another one. The kitchen door swings open and Cain walks out, drying his hands with a towel before tossing it onto the counter. Dean stares at the bartop.

“I’m finished for the night, Ellen,” Cain says.

“All right, thanks. You fancy a whiskey?” she asks.

“Yes please,” he says, coming out from behind the bar and sitting on the stool next to Dean.

“Maybe you can teach this one some manners,” Ellen says, topping up Dean’s glass again and adding a third one to the bar. She fills it up and leaves the bottle with them, grabbing her keys out of her pocket and heading towards the cellar door.

Cain drinks his whiskey slowly, wrapping his hands around his glass. Dean downs his shot and grabs for another. Cain grabs the bottle before he’s able to get it and holds it out of reach.

“This is a good brand,” he says.

“It is,” Dean says.

“If you slow down you’ll enjoy it more,” Cain says.

“Never been one for delayed gratification,” Dean says.

Cain doesn’t miss a beat. “You should try it sometime. It can be very rewarding.”

Dean licks his lips. Cain carefully places the bottle back where it sat and goes back to his own glass. Dean tries not to fidget on his stool. Fuck, maybe Sam’s right. Maybe he does need an intervention. The guy’s probably as old as Bobby and Dean’s sitting here trying to fight the urge to crawl into his lap like some spoiled—

The front door opens and Cain’s out of his seat in an instant. Dean jumps up, alert, but when he looks all he sees is a woman standing in the doorway, red hair falling over her black leather jacket in loose curls, red lipsticked lips turned upwards in a smile.

“Evening,” she says.

Her eyes flash black.

Dean’s heart jumps into his throat. He shoves Cain out of the way and moves to stand in front of him. The guy might be able to beat down thugs and bartenders’ psycho ex-boyfriends, but the guy’s no match for a demon.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_ ” Dean starts.

The woman laughs, her eyes flicking back to normal. “Aw. Good try, sweetheart.”

She lifts her hand and Dean feels himself fly back into the wall, some invisible force holding him there by the throat. He doesn’t even bother trying to struggle, having run in with enough demons to know it’s useless. He tries to keep his breathing calm so he doesn’t black out.

“You’ve found me, Abaddon. Let him go,” Cain says.

“You know this chick?” Dean manages to squeak out. The demon—Abaddon—tightens her mind-grip on his neck and cuts off his air supply. Awesome.

“I dunno,” she says, grinning at Dean. She loosens her grip, but only just. “I kinda like him.”

“What do you want?” Cain asks.

“Don’t play games with me,” she snaps, sunshine-and-rainbow demeanour vanishing in an instant. Cain doesn’t budge. Abaddon snarls—actually _snarls_ —and says, “Where’s the angel, Cain?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Abaddon laughs. She tightens her grip on Dean’s neck again and he gasps for air.

“The angel,” she says again.

“It isn’t here,” Cain says.

“You’re lying,” Abaddon says. “I tracked the grace.”

“Do you sense grace here?” Cain asks. Abaddon hesitates.

“I tracked it,” she says again. “And if I can, then so can—”

“It isn’t here,” Cain says again. “If it was, you could sense it. We all could. Now let the boy go and leave. I won’t ask again.”

At another time, in another situation, Dean would probably feel slightly humiliated that some dude he’s been panting over for the last couple of months just called him boy, but Abaddon’s grip is finally loosening up, so he’s not about to be picky.

A loud shot rings out and Abaddon’s grip falters entirely, sending Dean collapsing to the ground with a loud gasp. When he looks up again Ellen’s standing by the bar with a smoking shotgun, and Abaddon’s leather jacket has a hole in it, right over a lung.

“You heard ‘em,” Ellen says.

Abaddon turns to look at Cain, teeth bared.

“This isn’t over,” she says before disappearing.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean wheezes.

Ellen lowers her shotgun. She turns to Cain and says, “Some friend you got there.”

 

///

 

  
From: Sam [9:06pm]  
Hey, answer your phone.  
You okay?

  


  
To: Sam [9:38pm]  
Yeah. 

  


  
From: Sam [9:40pm]  
What was the big emergency?

  


  
To: Sam [9:48pm]  
Nothing, forget it. Was being stupid.  
Unrelated, demon came into the Roadhouse: Abaddon.  
Put your research cap on.

 

///

 

At half-past three in the morning, Dean wobbles his way into the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. He leans against the sink, trying to slow his breathing, heart pounding heavily in his chest. These fucking dreams—ghost ships and a demon with white eyes and invisible hounds ripping him to shreds, the smell of sulphur thick in his nose.

He steadies his breath, holds it, and lifts his t-shirt, watching his reflection in the mirror. The skin of his stomach is pale in the moonlight, scarred from stab wounds and bullet grazes and werewolf claws, but otherwise intact.

He lets his t-shirt fall back down and lets out his breath.

Downstairs he pours himself a drink and knocks it back. He pours himself another, then another. He stands in the dark of his kitchen, staring at the door in the wall. He loses track of how many drinks he has. When his arms start to feel heavy, his body starting to go numb, he turns back toward the stairs.

There’s another door at the end of the hallway.

If Dean were to open it, it should lead out into the side of the yard beside the back porch. Dean leans against the wall and uses it as support to reach the handle. It’s cool in his hand. He twists it and the door creaks open.

Instead of getting hit with a gust of warm night air, of the smell of swamp and the noise of frogs, Dean finds himself facing a wall. The space is maybe a foot deep, just a small groove, a dug-out little crevice.

Dean closes the door. He turns around and walks back up the stairs.

 

///

 

 

///

 

The stair in Donna’s hands comes off with a loud snap. She lets out a yelp and manages to catch herself before falling backwards on her ass. Dean laughs. Donna huffs and throws the stair at him, but it breaks into pieces.

“That’s reassuring,” Dean says.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re fixing them, huh?” she says, going for the next one.

“Beats going to the movies,” Dean says.

“You know it,” Donna beams at him before throwing all her weight down on the crowbar and snapping the next stair in two.

It’s late Saturday morning, the sun beaming down on them from behind sparse clouds. The frogs have quieted down in the cool breeze, but the birds have picked up their slack, hopping and fluttering their wings in the tree branches. It’s nice—and maybe Bobby was right. Maybe Dean just needed the weekend off.

“Oh! I think that just popped my back into place,” Donna grimaces and rolls her shoulders. “Feels like it.”

“Sounds like you need a massage,” Dean says.

“Don’t you be getting any funny ideas over there, mister,” Donna says. Dean holds up his hands.

They’ve been working quietly for a while, the radio playing The Beatles in the background—Donna’s choice—when Dean turns around and Cas is suddenly _there_ , standing right behind him in a t-shirt and torn jeans and sunglasses, holding a sweating pitcher of something clear-green and refreshing-looking.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Dean says.

“Not quite,” Cas says. “I made iced tea.”

“Well good morning to you!” Donna says, pushing herself up from the ground and dusting off her hands. “Is that green tea?”

Cas nods. “With jasmine. And agave nectar.”

“Perfect, I knew I liked you,” Donna says.

“The fuck is agave nectar?” Dean asks, but his question goes ignored. Donna has apparently decided it’s time for a break, grabbing the pitcher of iced tea and heading inside to grab glasses and coasters for the porch table she bought as a belated housewarming gift.

Dean clears his throat and Cas smiles in the direction Donna just left in.

“She’s very nice,” he says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “She is.”

“I wasn’t aware you two were romantically involved.”

“We’re—we’re not,” Dean blinks. “Romantically—uh.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s fine. Most people do,” Dean says. “Donna’s a good friend. Keeps me outta trouble.”

“Do you get into trouble often?” Cas asks.

Dean snorts. “Probably more than most people.”

Donna comes back out onto the porch with three full cups of iced tea and demands they take a break for ten minutes. Which turns into half an hour of idle chit-chat. Dean sits quietly and lets the two of them talk, listens to Donna regale tales of her horrible ex-husband, Doug—the whole reason she moved out here in the first place. Cas listens and smiles in all the right places, nodding along.

Dean watches him. The way he holds his glass in his hands, running his fingers absentmindedly through the condensation. The way he shifts his seat, rests his arms on his knees. How he smiles crookedly, and full out grins when Donna says something particularly funny. Dean looks up when Donna clears her throat and he flushes, caught staring.

They get back to work when the sun is at its highest, the ground warm and dry—for once. Cas puts himself to work, helping Donna break off the old, rotting steps as Dean builds the new staircase. He pulls off his t-shirt to wipe his face, Donna mock-whistling from where she’s sitting in the grass, and Cas watches him a moment, eyes hidden behind his glasses, before he turns back to Donna.

“Would you look at that!” Donna says when they’re finished.

“It’s okay, I suppose,” Cas says. “The steps are a little crooked.”

Dean looks at him and Cas smiles.

“Ass,” Dean says.

“I should get going,” Donna says. “Otis’ll get cranky if I’m home late. Walk me to my car, Dean?”

“Uh. But, it’s right there,” Dean says, gesturing to Donna’s cruiser behind them.

“Walk me to my car,” Donna says, using her cop-voice—which loses none of its bubbly cheerfulness but still creates an air of terror that demands to be respected. Dean looks at Cas, who shrugs, and follows her towards her car.

“What?” he asks.

“Might wanna be careful where you’re swinging your man-pecks because you’re going to fuel some hot-blooded fantasies if you’re not careful.”

“My man-what?”

She nods in Cas’s general direction and whistles, low, then beams at him. Dean rolls his eyes. He’s not gonna go near that one. Donna frowns, her eyes moving to something over his shoulder.

“Hey,” she says. “I think you got a bird living in your upstairs window.”

 

///

 

The bird is actually in her nest this time.

Dean has no idea what to do. He’s only ever thrown out empty bird nests before, old dusty ones full of cobwebs and dead bugs, or at least ones free of eggs. She can’t have been here long, though—however long it takes birds to build nests. Hell, for all he knows, she could have done it while he was outside.

She looks at him with tiny black eyes. Her coloring is off, different from the other house sparrows he’s seen, more pale red than brown. She lets out a chirp when he steps closer.

“Fuck,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “Dammit.”

He walks back out of the room, leaving her there.


	5. Chapter 5

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  2:12pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** Research

Hey,

I’ve been trying to find all the lore I can. Some of it is all over the place, so I just pieced together a few things that might be relevant. There’s more if you need it, but honestly, I don’t think you’re going to like what I have.

Appollyon appears in the Bible as an angel from “a bottomless pit.” He’s a king commanding an army of locusts in the New Testament Book of Revelation. His name can be translated to “destroyer,” having being assigned to cause destruction at God’s command. He is also referred to as Abaddon.

Abaddon is also the name of a Knight of Hell, being one of the first demons created, and hand-picked by Lucifer himself. It’s believed that she was trained by Cain—Book of Genesis, Cain and Abel, that Cain—the original Knight of Hell, and together along with their army they wreaked havoc upon Earth.

This is where the information gets a bit fuzzy. Some of it says Abaddon is dead. Some says she demolished an entire secret organization of supernatural researchers called the Men of Letters. Another report speculates that at least one survived. I’ve never heard of any of this stuff before, though, and the sources are pretty shady. The only Abaddon I’ve heard of was the one in the Bible, the king of locusts guy.

What did she want?

Sam

 

///

 

  
**To:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu) |  3:14pm  
**From:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com)  
**Subject:** re: Research

She was looking for an angel, but I’m guessing she didn’t mean literal since last I heard angels don’t actually exist.

The biker guy from Roadhouse is named Cain.

 

///

 

  
**To:** Dean Winchester (impala67@gmail.com) |  3:17pm  
**From:** Sam Winchester (swinchester@stanford.edu)  
**Subject:** re: Research

I’m coming a day early.

Sam

 

///

 

Dean spends the next week in the Roadhouse after his shifts. He sits at the edge of the bar and nurses glasses of whiskey, joining in with Ash and Jo’s arguments or making small talk with Anne Marie. Everyone’s on edge. Their shoulders tense and heads turn whenever the door opens. In a place like the Roadhouse, those in the know learn pretty quick when something big is going down. The air changes.

Cain is the only one seemingly unperturbed by the whole thing. He sits at the bar, drinking his beer, eyes locked on the television. When the door opens, when some stranger swaggers in, he ignores them, doesn’t shift an inch on his stool while everyone else lets out a collective sigh of relief when it’s just some tourist, or some deer hunter looking for a drink, someplace dry and something to eat.

Dean has a hard time looking at him now. Whatever mess Cain’s involved with, it’s not just running from the law. Demons mean deals, mean missing souls and ten year contracts. If this Abaddon chick is what Sam says she is—not just a c-grade crossroads demon, but a fucking _knight_ —then Dean’s probably better off not knowing.

 

///

 

The shower and the rest of the bathroom supplies come in halfway through the week. Dean installs the new shower first, relieved when the water comes out harder than a delicate trickle. He removes the sink and the vanity and starts ripping up the bathroom floor.

Two days before Sam’s visit, Dean starts working on the porch. He pulls up the rotting boards and nails down new ones. The banisters need replacing; half of them fall apart with the slightest touch, especially when wet. He keeps looking forward, concentrating on Sam’s visit. Counts the days down in his head so he can ignore the way the hairs on his arms stand up whenever he’s near the cabin. The weekend looks like it’s going to hold off the rain, at least.

He spends most of the next day reading on the porch, beer on his knee, legs propped against the new banister. The book is good, manages to suck him in without him knowing it, so when he finally notices the figure standing next to him, he jumps about ten feet and spills his beer.

“Jesus!”

“You keep mistaking me for him,” Cas says. “I personally don’t see the resemblance.”

“Funny,” Dean says. He sets down what’s left of his beer and drops his book onto the table. Cas sits down in the chair next to Dean’s, close enough that their elbows bump, and folds his hands in his lap and leans back, gesturing to the book.

“Are you enjoying it?”

“I just finished it,” Dean says.

“And?” Cas asks.

“I liked it,” Dean says. “It’s, uh. Hard to keep me interested in that sort of thing, sometimes. My mind wanders. But westerns are a good choice. Sucks about Jake.”

“Hmm,” Cas says. “Personally I found the ending a bit anticlimactic.”

“Yeah?”

Cas nods. “The rest of the series is better.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dean says.

“Or you could just read it yourself,” Cas says. “That’s why I gave you the books.”

Dean pulls on a thread at the knee of his jeans. “Or I could do that.”

Cas gives him a small smile. Dean clears his throat.

“You want a beer?”

“No, thank you,” Cas says. “I came to help you with your bird.”

“My—oh. Right,” Dean says. “Y’know, I’m not sure she’s a sparrow.”

“She is,” Cas says. “She just has leucism.”

Dean stares at him.

“It’s a genetic abnormality,” Cas says. “It reduces all skin pigmentation.”

“Thanks for the science lesson, Bill Nye,” Dean says. “Let’s go help her pack her things.”

Cas nods and Dean gets to his feet. Cas follows, waiting for Dean to open the front door and lead him inside. Cas doesn’t comment on the sparse furniture, the old couch and the clunky television. Dean shuts the screen door behind them and motions for him to follow.

“You’re lucky that house sparrows are considered invasive species,” Cas says as they climb the stairs. “Tampering with their nests isn’t illegal.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Didn’t know there were laws for that sorta thing.”

“Depends on the bird,” Cas says. “Native species, non-invasive species, yes. You can get fined. I had to learn the hard way.”

Dean turns around to look at him.

Cas hesitates. “I assumed you had heard about my, ah, misadventures with a blue jay.”

“I don’t care about gossip,” Dean says.

“Oh,” Cas says. “Well, good. Neither do I.”

“You harassed a blue jay?”

“No, I tried to save a blue jay’s nest,” Cas says. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Dean doesn’t want to know. He leads Cas into his bedroom and stands by the door as Cas wanders over to the nest. The bird is thankfully nowhere in sight. Dean spent the better part of his morning fighting against his instincts before popping off the screen and leaving the window open. At least the stress was worth it.

“She hasn’t laid eggs yet,” Cas says, pulling out a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket. “That’s good.”

Carefully, he lifts the nest off the sill with one hand. He holds it like it’s fragile, like it’ll shatter if he drops it instead of just flop uselessly on the ground. He uses the other to close the window and lock it. He turns to Dean and asks, “Where do you want it?”

“Will she even find it?” Dean asks.

Cas shrugs. “Hard to say. You could destroy it, if you wish. They’ll build another one somewhere.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “There’s a spot for it in the shed. I don’t use it.”

Cas nods and wanders past him, out of the room and back down the stairs. Dean follows him outside and across the lawn, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

The shed is a few feet away from the cabin, small and just as rotten as the rest of the place. The windows are long busted and full of dust and cobwebs. Dean fully intends to clean it one day, but it’s near the bottom of a long list of shit he intends to do. Cas pushes open the door. A cloud of dust rains down on them, sending them into a coughing fit. It’s dark and damp inside, but it’s quiet and it’s safe.

Cas brushes off the window sill. Gently, he lowers the nest into the corner, making sure it fits just right, away from the hole in the window. He peels off his gloves and tosses them into a nearby empty box resting on top of a crooked shelf, then gives Dean a satisfied smile.

“I’m surprised there aren’t more nests nearby,” he says once they’re outside again. “House sparrows are incredibly sociable birds. They tend to live in colonies.”

“Dude, how do you know so much about this stuff?” Dean asks.

“I like birds,” Cas says.

“Right,” Dean says. “Well. Thanks.”

Cas smiles. “I’m sure your brother wouldn’t want a bird flying around your cabin when he’s visiting.”

Dean frowns at him. “How’d you know my brother was coming?”

“I heard it somewhere.”

“Christ. This town needs to get a hobby,” Dean rubs at his face.

Cas hums, looking over Dean’s shoulder in the direction of his own cabin, eyes distant.

“That windowsill needs to be disinfected,” he says. “You’ll probably want to keep the window closed tonight if you’re not going to put the screen back in. It’s going to start raining in twenty minutes. I imagine you don’t want her to come back inside.”

“Really? I heard clear skies all weekend,” Dean says. Cas finally looks at him and blinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I should go.”

Cas bids him farewell with another small smile and walks down the drive, back to his place. Dean watches him until he disappears around the corner, then turns back to his cabin.

 

///

 

It starts to rain twenty minutes later.

 

///

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the demon grins at him, running his finger along the edge of his knife. He’s wearing an older man for a meatsuit, tall and thin and with a voice that makes Dean’s flesh crawl.

“ _Winchester_. Y’know, your daddy and I had talks like this before. He told me all sorts of fun little bedtime stories about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, shaking in pain, too weak to fight against the ropes binding him. He doesn’t—he can’t look down. If he looks down he’ll start screaming and never stop, and his throat’s already too dry.

The demon presses closer to him, runs the tip of the knife along his chest.

Dean says, “He tell you about the time I stuck a knife in one of your guys’s eye sockets?”

“Oh, no. Didn’t hear that one,” the demon says, pulling back. Then, “Here, help me paint a better mental picture. Do you mean like this?”

He shoves the knife into Dean’s right eye. Dean fights back a scream of pain, breathing harsh, his teeth clenching hard enough to bleed. The demon watches, fascinated, and twists the knife. Dean breaks with a shout.

“I guess no one told you that hurts the meatsuit more than it hurts us,” the demon says, pulling the knife out. Dean feels blood run down his cheek, his face throbbing in pain, his stomach rolling.

“Just think,” the demon snaps his fingers and Dean can see again. “This could all be over, Dean. You can end this whenever you want. You’ve held up for so long. I think you could use a break, don’t you?”

The demon touches the knife to his neck, draws a thin line across the skin. Dean barely feels it.

“All you have to do,” the demon says, teasing the knife down along his shoulder, his arm and his wrist, touching it to Dean’s hand. “Is say yes.”

Dean looks down. His vision swims. All he can see is red.

“All right, you sick son of a bitch,” he says. “ _Yes_.”

 

///

 

Dean jumps and knocks over his bottle of whiskey. The television’s gone to static, going in and out of the _Doctor Sexy, M.D_ rerun marathon he put on during dinner. A chill runs down his spine. Frantic, Dean touches his eye, presses his fingers against it, then lowers his hands to his stomach, feels for blood, but there’s nothing there.

He glances over his shoulder, towards the kitchen, where the door waits.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” Dean says when a small blue Honda pulls into his drive.

Sam unfolds himself from the car. His damn hair nearly touches his shoulders, messed and staticy from driving with an open window. He’s got on a huge pair of sunglasses that take up half his face, and he beams at Dean as he picks his way across the lawn, the grass still slippery from the rain.

“Get your damn garbage off my property,” Dean shouts at him.

Sam just laughs and grabs him, pulling him into a crushing hug that squeezes the oxygen out of his lungs.

“What’s with the hair?” Dean asks when Sam pulls back, letting him breathe again.

“It got long,” Sam says.

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t cut it,” Dean says. “I got some garden sheers in the shed if you want me to, uh—”

“Shut up,” Sam says, grinning. “So this is it, huh? It’s not nearly as dilapidated as I was expecting.”

“I’ve been working on it some,” Dean grabs Sam’s bags from the back seat of the car and hefts them over his shoulder, waving Sam off when he tries to help. “There’s a list of shit that still needs fixing, but there’s no leaks anymore.”

“That’s good,” Sam says, following him up the front steps. “Uh. What’s with the frogs?”

“There’s a swamp in the back,” Dean says.

Sam looks at him.

“Dude,” Dean says. “Don’t even. You drive a Honda.”

“A _swamp_.”

“You get used to the smell,” Dean says.

“Dean,” Sam says, “I think you’ve gone full Salinger.”

 

///

 

After showing Sam to his room (“Well, at least there’s a bed?”) and letting him put his things away in the rickety second-hand furniture Dean bought specifically with Sam in mind, the two of them pile into the Impala and head into town.

It’s fairly quiet for a weekend, though tourists have already started to trickle into town, on their way to the Appalachian Mountains, or passing through on the way to the coast. Aside from visiting Bobby as children, their dad mainly kept to the Midwestern states, so Sam keeps his face pressed to the window, watching the town roll by.

They pull into the Roadhouse and make their way inside. Jo practically jumps over the bar in excitement when she sees Sam, throwing her arms over his shoulders. Ellen gives him a gentle hug, and Bobby rises out of his chair to clap him on the back.

“Good to see ya, son,” he says. “Not sure I can say the same ‘bout the hair.”

“Right?” Dean says.

“I like it,” Jo grins. “Very rock star.”

“Very douchebag,” Dean says.

They shoot the shit for a while, Dean picking at a plate of chicken wings while Sam talks about school. Everyone carefully avoids discussing the recent incident, though it’s obvious Sam is practically vibrating off of his stool with the need to share what he learned. With a family of tourists settled in the back and a few of the more roughened game hunters eyeing them from across the bar, it’s not the time.

They stop in at the butcher to grab something for dinner, then harass Charlie at her work. Dean spends a good half hour listening to the two of them nerd out over Harry Potter. Dean drags Sam out an hour later when it looks like he’s going to buy half the store.

“I like your brother,” Charlie says before they leave. “He can stay.”

Kevin makes Sam a soy London Fog on the house and makes Dean pay for his coffee.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“I give you enough freebies,” Kevin says. “Besides, occasionally I need to remind you that I’m still pissed you hit on my mom.”

“That was, like, a year ago,” Dean says. Sam gives him a look and Dean says, “What?”

With a sigh he dumps a tip in the jar anyway and Kevin grins at him from behind the counter.

“You’ll probably meet Donna soon enough,” Dean says when they sit down. “She’s working right now.”

“We’ve got time,” Sam blows on his drink. “Seems like you’ve made an impression.”

Dean shrugs. “I just fix people’s cars.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Sam says. “You’ve helped people here. I mean, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, they’ve pretty much always known about—about our thing, y’know? But Charlie, and Kevin? You’ve got some good friends here, Dean.”

Dean just drinks his coffee.

“So,” Sam says, thankfully changing the subject. “When do I get to meet The Chef?”

Dean rubs at his face and Sam laughs.

 

///

 

“Uh,” Sam says when they pull into Dean’s drive later that evening. “Why is there a guy on your porch?”

Cas turns to look at them as Dean cuts off the engine and gets out of the car. His knee twinges, and he stops to rub at it a moment as Sam makes his way up the front steps, standing at his full height, shoulders tense.

“Hello,” Cas says, holding out his hand. “You must be Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, taking his hand and shaking it, bemused. He glances over his shoulder at Dean, who limps his way up to the porch.

“Sam, Cas,” Dean says, leaning against the railing. “He’s my neighbor.”

“Oh, right,” Sam says, relaxing. “Sorry you have to put up with my brother.”

“Dude, I’m right here.”

“It’s fine. I think we worked out any disagreements,” Cas winks—fucking _winks_ —and Dean feels his cheeks heat. That’s just great. To Dean, Cas says, “I brought over some soil.”

“Okay,” Dean says. Then, “Why?”

Cas gestures to the patch of dead weeds at the bottom of the porch. “For the garden.”

“Garden?” Sam asks.

“It’s not a _garden_ ,” Dean says.

“Well, no. Right now it closely resembles the aftermath of a nuclear disaster,” Cas says. “But soon it’ll be a garden.”

Sam tries to keep a straight face.

“Shut up,” Dean says. “It’s not going to have, like, _flowers_ and shit. It’s just going to be cleaned up, and maybe have some tomatoes and peppers, or something.”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. “That’s called a garden.”

“Whatever,” Dean says. “Thanks for the soil, Cas.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas says. “I should go. I imagine you have some catching up to do. It was nice meeting you, Sam.”

“Same to you,” Sam says.

Dean watches Cas pull his crinkled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he wanders off. When he turns back Sam still has that stupid look on his face, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“He seems… nice,” Sam says.

Dean clears his throat.

“So. You guys, uh. _Worked out_ some disagreements?”

“No. He’s just—he’s weird. We haven’t—that’s not what he meant,” Dean says.

Sam’s mouth twitches.

“Shut up,” Dean says again.

Sam bursts out laughing and Dean opens the front door harder than necessary.

 

///

 

As Dean sets up the barbeque on the back porch, Sam pokes around the edge of the swamp, trying to catch frogs like he did when he was four years old. Back when seeing Dean squirm away from them was the funniest shit imaginable. Dean watches as he cooks the steaks they bought in town.

It’s a quiet evening, the weather cooperating for once. Sam manages to catch five frogs, getting his hands covered in mud and gunk before he gives up and washes them off, coming back outside with the cooler.

“Do you think there are any alligators in there?” he asks, handing Dean a plate for his steak.

“No idea,” Dean says. “Probably.”

“Man, that’d be so cool to see one,” Sam says.

“Yeah, just keep it in your pants, Steve.”

“Steve was crocodiles, not alligators,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes.

They eat in silence, listening to the sound of bugs and birds in the trees, Dean with his leg propped up on a chair and Sam turned towards the swamp, watching the water ripple each time a frog jumps in. Having Sam here, it’s almost enough for Dean to forget the shit that’s been happening lately, the weird feeling in his gut, in the muscles and down his spine, the one that he just can’t shake.

But then Sam, his head still turned to the water, he says, “How are you doing?”

Dean’s grip on his beer bottle tightens. “Fine.”

Sam turns to look at him. “Really.”

“Yes.”

“You’re fine.”

“Yes, Sam. That’s what I said,” Dean downs the rest of the bottle.

“I’m not trying to start something,” Sam says, turning to face him. “Just. You know. You kept it together after Dad died. But after Lisa left, you kinda went off the radar for a bit there. Next thing, you—”

“I know what happened.” Dean grabs another bottle out of the cooler.

Sam watches him. “None of it is your fault.”

“Seriously?” Dean says. “What I did?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply but Dean cuts him off.

“How is that not my fault?” he asks.

“Yeah, okay. That’s a messed up situation,” Sam says. “But that’s just it. This whole mess—you grew up hunting and it nearly killed you. You don’t have to punish yourself for things going sideways and deciding you’ve had enough.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?” Dean asks. “Punishing myself?”

“You live alone in a cabin in the woods, in the middle of a _swamp_ , Dean,” Sam says.

“It’s not in the middle,” Dean says.

“You know what I mean,” Sam says.

“I’m fine, Sam. Seriously,” Dean says.

His knee twinges and he winces and shifts his leg, trying to avoid rubbing at it when Sam can see. Sam catches the movement anyway. He sighs but doesn’t say anything more, just reaches into the cooler and grabs himself another beer. He cracks it open and leans back in his chair, and together they watch the swamp without another word.

 

///

 

Everything is dark—black. Stuffy. The air smells of dirt, of pine. Dean coughs, chokes on air. His breath feels hot on his own face, quick, desperate. He tries to move but hits walls on either side of him. He can’t—he can’t _see_.

He tries to keep his breathing calm, his heart pounding, blood loud in his ears. He reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out his lighter, opening it, flicking it once—twice—until it sparks into life.

He holds the light up, dim orange, barely enough to see by, but it’s enough. There’s wood by his feet and by his head. Wood above him. He’s trapped.

He panics. Calls for help, but his voice barely manages to scratch its way out of his throat—too dry. He reaches up and starts pounding at the wood above him, digs his fingers into the grooves and pulls. Dirt falls onto his face, into his eyes, his mouth. The wood starts to give. He keeps pulling, digging his nails in so hard it hurts, so hard they break.

The wood finally snaps and dirt pours in. Dean breaks the rest of the wood, holding his breath. He digs his hands into the dirt. Grips roots and rocks and clumps mud, using it to pull himself up, arms shaking, lungs burning, desperate as he climbs.

Finally his hand breaks through the surface. He feels grass against his fingers and nearly cries in relief. His lungs feel ready to burst. His fingers throb in pain as he claws his way out of the ground. His head finally breaks through, the sun blinding, burning hot on his skin, and Dean—

Chokes and splutters, rolling off the bed in a coughing fit that has him clutching at his throat. He gets to his feet, shaking and weak, and wobbles into the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet. He gives up after a moment and slumps against the tub.

The porcelain feels cool against his back. Outside the sky is starting to brighten, and the first of the early birds is starting to chirp in a tree nearby. Dean steadies his breathing. Checks his hands. They’re clean, fingernails intact. Dean lowers them again and looks towards the window.

Scratch that. _Windows_.

Dean starts to laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey, man,” Sam greets him from the kitchen table. “I had a fight with your coffee machine.”

“Did you win, at least?” Dean asks.

Sam holds up a mug of coffee.

“Awesome,” Dean says. He pours himself a mug, then notices the near-empty bottle of whiskey. He grabs it and empties the rest into the mug before taking a drink. It’s hot, and a bit strong, but it’s coffee—just how he likes it.

He pulls out the chair opposite Sam, facing the stairway door, and lowers himself into it. Rolling off the bed earlier did his knee no favors. He rubs at it under the table and drinks his coffee as Sam folds the newspaper up and sets it aside, reaching across the table for more cereal. Dean sets his mug down, eyes still on the door.

“I need to show you something,” he says.

“Okay?” Sam blinks up at him.

Dean gets up and moves towards the door. Sam watches him, turning in his chair. Dean takes a calming breath, reading himself, and twists the door handle. The door opens with a quiet creak. The stairs are still there, leading down into a patch of nothing. Dean steps aside and waits for Sam to get up and wander over.

“Er,” Sam says. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s weird, right?” Dean says.

“Well, kinda,” Sam says. “But I mean, maybe this place used to have a cellar, and whoever lived here last put a wall up because the cellar was unfinished, or they weren’t going to use it. I mean, cellars in old places like this, they’re not exactly rec-room material.”

“I dunno, man,” Dean shakes his head. “I—I’m having a hard time remembering it even being here. I mean, when I first moved in. You’d think I would notice a whole door. There’s another one at the end of the hall. I could have sworn they weren’t here before. I just—I dunno. I have this feeling.”

Sam looks at him, shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, shoulders lowering. This can’t be good.

“Dean,” he says. “Maybe you should… you know. Cut back?” 

Dean stares at him. Sam nods towards his mug.

“Seriously?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t,” Dean says, taking another drink. “And don’t change the subject.”

Sam sighs. “Well, what are you thinking? Fairies? I mean, nothing I’ve heard of can make a staircase or a window grow out of thin air.”

“Fairies?” Dean says. “Out of everything, you go with _fairies?_ ”

“Dude, I don’t know,” Sam says. “Witches?”

“I checked, there’s no hexbag,” Dean says. “There’s no sulphur, there’s no cold spots, there’s no ectoplasm. I mean, other than the windows and the fucking staircase to nowhere, there’s nothing.”

Sam just shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t what you want me to say, then.”

“I’m just—” Dean rubs at his eyes. “Can we look into it? I mean, find something—anything—similar? I swear, man. I’ll sleep better at night if we just try.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “This town has a library, right?”

 

///

 

Dean seriously regrets this decision.

“I seriously regret this decision,” Dean says.

“Quiet, I’m reading,” Sam says.

Dean groans and lets his head drop onto the back of his chair, closing his eyes. They’ve been sitting in the library for three hours. First Sam insisted on checking the obscure section, pulling out a few heavy tomes full of history and legends. He went into full research geek-mode, pulling out a pen and a notepad from seemingly nowhere and turning to a fresh page, scrawling _POSSIBLE_ on top.

The list was looking pretty scarce at the moment—only two objects on it. Dean’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Right now, it looks like he’s either dealing with a deity or a demigod.

“Okay, get this,” Sam says, “‘The Trickster is an immortal creature capable of wielding powers similar to that of a demigod, though they usually disguise themselves as human. Oftentimes the Trickster will entertain itself through mischief and chaos, typically with a flair of humour, such as creating objects out of thin air or distorting the reality of their victims. The more aggressive Tricksters are almost cat-like in their behaviour, in that they'll play with their victims before finally killing them.’”

“Well, that’s just awesome,” Dean says.

“Do you know anyone who is particularly mischievous and thrives on chaos?” Sam asks. “Someone who maybe has it out for you?”

“You mean, other than all the ghosts and vamps and wolves and wendigos that we’ve spent our whole lives killing?” Dean asks. “No, not really.”

Sam sighs and closes the book. “And we’re back to fairies.”

“Sorry,” someone says. “But, are you guys researching a video game, or something?”

Dean opens an eye. There’s a woman standing next to their table. She’s got books under her arm and two dark braids falling over her shoulders. Dean opens his other eye and sits up straighter, smiling.

“No, no,” he says. “We’re, uh. English students. Doing a thesis on modern versus classic fairy tales for our literature class.”

Sam frowns at him.

So does the woman. “Aren’t you the mechanic from Singer’s?”

“What?” Dean says. “No, I—”

“Yeah!” the woman points at him. “You fixed my Toyota! Don, right?”

“Dean,” Sam says. Dean stomps on his foot. Sam winces but ignores him, continuing with, “I’m Sam.”

“Cool,” the woman nods. She shifts her books and holds her hand out to Sam. “I’m Sarah.”

“You know anything about fairies, Sarah?” Sam asks.

“Oh god,” Dean says. “Dude, seriously. This is exactly why you never get laid.”

Sam ignores him. So does Sarah.

“I don’t, sorry,” she says. “I have a painting of a fairy that I’m looking to sell, only I can’t figure out who the artist is. When I heard you guys talking, I just—you know. It seems like the kind of thing guys into video games would like.”

“Why do you say that?” Sam asks.

“She’s a fairy,” Sarah says. “And there’s nipples.”

“Sounds hot,” Dean says. Sam glares at him.

“Do you have a picture of the painting with you?” he asks.

“I do, actually,” Sarah digs into her pocket to pull out a crinkled sheet of paper, and Dean’s officially a third wheel.

He gets up and wanders over to the computers, but once there he had no idea where to start. He opens up the search engine and types in _demigod_ , but just ends up with pages and pages about various video game characters. He plays a few round of Solitaire before getting bored.

“Hey,” Sam says, catching up with him when he wanders off to browse the magazines. “So we’re kinda stuck for now, right?”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“Well,” Sam shuffles awkwardly. “Sarah asked if I could help her move some of the bigger paintings that just came in, since her dad isn’t in town right now, and I kinda… said I would.”

“Were you able to name her mystery artist?” Dean asks.

“Boris Vallejo,” Sam says. Dean stares at him. Sam huffs, “I have a friend who is really into fantasy.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says. “Go _move some paintings_ , or whatever it is you kids are calling it these days.”

Sam grins and all but runs back to the table where Sarah is waiting next to their piles of abandoned research.

Right, fine. It’s cool. Research was getting boring, anyway. He’ll just—he’ll just go home to his freaky, demigod-fucked fairy-cabin and wait for the staircase to crawl out of the floor and eat him.

 

///

 

Dean doesn’t go home. Instead he wanders aimlessly around town, head down and hands in his pockets. It’s cloudy but warm, and the shops have their doors open, music pouring out onto the sidewalk as he passes by, rock and pop and some new-age-y shit the store with all the smelly incense seems to thrive on.

After an hour or so his knee starts to ache and his coffee buzz from that morning has completely worn off. He hobbles around the block to the café, hoping he can maybe sweet-talk Kevin into giving him a free cup since he left all his change in his car, when he spots him. Sitting outside, off in the far corner of the patio, book in his lap and cigarette between his fingers, is Cas.

“Hey there, stranger,” Dean says, pulling out the opposite chair and plunking himself down.

Cas looks up from his book and smiles at him. “Hello, Dean.”

“Whatcha readin’?” Dean asks.

“ _The Divine Comedy._ ”

Dean whistles. “Ain’t that a bit heavy for Saturday morning?”

Cas frowns and lifts the book. “It’s not that heavy.” 

“No, I mean—never mind.”

“What are you doing in town?” Cas asks, setting the book down on the table and taking a drink from his mug. His leg brushes against Dean’s under the table. Dean doesn’t pull away.

“I brought Sam to the library,” he says. “He wanted to look some stuff up.”

“I see,” Cas inhales from his cigarette. “Where is he now?”

“He met a girl.”

“Ah,” Cas nods. “You’ve been replaced.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll get over it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Cas smiles, exhaling.

“So. How long do you think it’ll take you to read this thing?” Dean asks, thumbing the pages of Cas’s book.

“I’ll probably finish it tomorrow.”

“Nice,” Dean says. “You going for a world record?”

“No, I just enjoy reading,” Cas says. “It might be a bit of an addiction.”

“There are worse out there,” Dean says.

“Mm,” Cas says. “You mean like drugs?”

“Uh,” Dean says. He almost forgot about that.

“You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t know, Dean. The whole town does,” Cas says, taking a pull from his cigarette. “I’ve made peace with it. I’m getting past it. I don’t need anyone else’s approval.”

“I’m not judging, Cas,” Dean says. “I mean, hell. I’m the last person who can judge.”

Cas taps his cigarette. “Why, what’s your poison?

“Nah, it ain’t like that,” Dean says. “Just. My life hasn’t exactly been peachy keen.”

“No, I suppose not,” Cas says, gaze focused past Dean’s shoulder. “It must be difficult having your brother so far away, especially being so close to him growing up. And with your father dying, and you killing a man—”

Dean freezes. “Where did—how do you know that?”

Cas blinks and looks at him. “I heard it.”

“I thought you didn’t listen to gossip,” Dean says.

“I don’t,” Cas says.

Dean huffs a humorless laugh. “Man, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it ain’t funny.”

Cas frowns. “I’m not playing at anything. I’m just trying to get to know you better.”

“Well don’t,” Dean snaps. “You don’t know shit about me. And the shit you think you do, it’s none of your fucking business. So why don’t you keep your nose out of it, huh?”

“Dean—”

Dean gets out of his chair, the metal legs scraping loudly on the concrete.

“Just. Forget it,” he shakes his head. “Enjoy your damn book.”

 

///

 

Cas is in his dream that night.

Or, rather, something wearing Cas’s face. Something otherworldly and powerful, dressed in a slightly too-big suit and blue tie, tan overcoat hanging off its shoulders as it bursts through a pair of barn doors and stalks its way towards him.

Dean shoots it. He stabs it in the chest. Bobby swings at it with a crowbar, but the Cas-shaped thing stops him without tearing his eyes away from Dean, turning only to send Bobby toppling to the floor with a single touch.

“What are you?” Dean asks.

The thing wearing Cas’s face says, “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Then light flashes—lightning crackles—and there’s big—huge—gigantic black wings spreading out from the thing’s back, stretching so the tips of the shadow-feathers nearly brush the walls of the barn. Dean exhales, sharp, tense, feeling frozen to the spot, and the lightning stops and the wings disappear.

 

///

 

It’s dark. His breathing comes out harsh, and he’s tangled in the sheets. His skin tingles like he’s been shocked, burns, warm and pleasant at the base of his spine. He throws off the sheets and tries to calm down.

“Dammit,” he says, kicking off his boxers and wrapping a hand around himself, tries to block out the image of Cas’s arms—his hands. Cas has nice hands. Smooth. Long fingers—fuck. He shouldn’t—it’s bad enough he’s perving on his freaky neighbor, but now he’s dreaming about him, and this is just—this is just _wrong_.

But Cas has dark, bed-ridden hair that Dean desperately wants to tangle his hands into. He wonders what the swell of Cas’s bottom lip might taste like. Cas, he’s weird and awkward, and he drives a—a fucking Vespa, and he smokes like a chimney and that shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is—he is. And sometimes he looks at Dean like he’s—he’s something special, something _good_. Like he’s going to save the damn world.

Dean swears under his breath and comes.

 

///

 

 

///

 

The wood for the new floors and the kitchen cupboards come in the same day. Sam watches from the porch with a cup of coffee in hand as Dean signs for the delivery and helps the guy drag the materials into the house.

“Guess that’s our day planned?” Sam asks once the guy leaves.

“You got it,” Dean says, shaking rain water out of his hair. “Bathroom first, since the kitchen will take longer. We’ll start on it when Donna gets here.”

Sam helps him drag the materials upstairs and drops them in front of the bathroom. They roll out the moisture barrier and the padding, then break open the boxes of floorboards. They keep conversation light as they work, talking over the noise of hammers and the radio. Sam helps measure and Dean brings the boards outside to cut. They install the new sink and the vanity just before Donna arrives.

“Nice work,” she whistles, arms loaded down with sandwiches and coffee and a bag of donuts, still in her work uniform. She introduces herself to Sam, fanning herself when he lets go of her hand. “Boy, looks like you got all the good Winchester genes.”

“Hey!” Dean says.

“You single, Sam?” Donna asks.

“Uh—”

“I’m just kiddin’,” Donna beams and nudges him playfully. “Donut?”

Donna changes out of her uniform and they eat lunch in the living room, as Dean tries to get them to visualize how the whole place to look when it’s finished. The wood matches the original décor, having the old, worn look to it, but without actually being old and worn and falling off the hinges or warping in the center.

Dean sets Sam and Donna to work on tearing up the floor as he starts taking off the cupboard doors, since it shouldn’t take long to replace them. Donna and Sam bond over their mutual love for dogs, Sam quickly sliding into overly-excitable kid-mode when he learns Donna’s got one waiting for her at home. By the time Dean’s finished the cupboards, a good chunk of the floor has been torn up.

“This is harder than fixing those rotting stairs,” Donna says, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “When’s Cas coming by? We could use the extra pair of hands.”

Dean snaps off a piece of floorboard, keeping his head down. “Dunno if he is.”

“You dunno?” Donna asks. She grunts and another board comes off. “He’s been hanging around here a lot. Figured you would know.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Do you guys have more disagreements to _work out_?” Sam asks, looking smug.

Dean grits his teeth. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s with the fucking cross-examination?” Dean snaps. “The dude’s probably busy, okay?”

Donna and Sam share a look. Christ, they’ve already moved into non-verbal communication territory and Donna’s only been here for a few hours.

Dean sighs and goes back to work. “Just forget it.”

“Okee-dokee,” Donna says.

Sam doesn’t comment, just starts working at the floorboards again. Dean pulls a board up with a lot more force than needed, nearly breaking it in half. No one says anything. Good.

And who needs Cas, anyway. Sure, he’s good with his hands—or, well. He’s good at helping out, anyway. Seems to enjoy it. And maybe he’s good company, somehow managing to be charming while being stiff-shouldered and awkward. But whatever. It’s fine with just the three of them. They don’t need some cranky weird-ass to help them remove a few beaten up floorboards.

It takes him a minute to realize Donna hasn’t been working. Instead, she’s frowning at something on the wall. When Dean turns to look his heart lurches uncomfortably in his chest. The door to the stairs apparently opened on its own at some point, and none of them noticed it.

“Was that always like that?” Donna asks.

Dean gets off the floor and moves towards the door. “Still trying to figure that out myself.”

He reaches the door and moves to close it. He stops. His breath catches in his throat and his legs threaten to give out from under him, sending him stumbling backwards against the kitchen counter.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, jumping up to help him. “Are you okay?”

“Look,” Dean says, shaking off Sam’s hands and pointing to the door. “Sam, the— _look_.”

Sam frowns and moves over to the door, opening it wider and peeking his head in. When he steps back the colour has drained from his face. He looks at Dean.

“I fucking _told_ you!” Dean says.

“What is it?” Donna asks, coming to join them.

“Donna, do you remember that door being there when we first came here?” Dean asks.

“Um,” Donna thinks. “I’m not really sure, sorry. I don’t think I paid that much attention.”

“Okay, but there was only stairs before, right?” Dean says to Sam. “You remember that, right?”

“Stairs to nowhere,” Sam nods.

Dean feels it, a magnetic tugging in his gut, a prickle down his spine, at the back of his neck that makes him turn his head, makes him want to look towards the door when he’s near it. He swallows and reaches for the handle, moving to close the door and try to forget about it. To ignore the fact that now, beyond the rickety, narrow set of stairs—the ones that used to end at a blank wall—stands another door.

 

///

 

It’s just after four in the morning when Dean gets out of bed, grabs his measuring tape out of his toolbox, and heads outside. He starts measuring from one corner of the cabin to the next, writing down each number on a scrap piece of paper. Sam comes out on the porch, hair messed, bags under his eyes, and watches him grab a ladder from the shed and lean it against the roof. Dean hands Sam the measuring tape and climbs up onto the roof to measure the height of the cabin.

Inside, Sam watches him limp from one side of the cabin to the next, dragging the measuring tape with him. He doesn’t say anything when Dean hands him the tape again and climbs the stairs to the second floor, leaning over the banister to grab at the end of the tape and pull it up.

Afterwards, he adds all the numbers together to get two: one for the outside of the building, one for the inside, Sam reading over his shoulder as he works it out. Dean drops his pencil on the table and picks up the piece of paper.

Sam says, “That’s not possible.”

“Well, apparently it is,” Dean says. “Because this cabin is exactly two feet bigger inside than it is outside.”

He turns back into the kitchen and pours himself a drink. He pours one for Sam and hands it over. They sit at the kitchen table in silence, both staring at the door on the opposite wall. Dean downs his drink and pours himself another

“What should we do?” Sam asks. “I mean. Should we… check it out?”

“Like hell I’m going down there,” Dean says.

“Not by yourself, you’re not,” Sam says. “I’m going with you.”

Dean looks at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, Dean, seriously,” Sam says. “Your cabin is _growing by itself._ ”

“You didn’t really seem to believe me before,” Dean says.

“Well, I do now,” Sam says. “Besides, it’s not much different from going into haunted asylums and abandoned mineshafts, right?”

“I guess,” Dean says.

“So in the morning,” Sam says. “First thing. You and I, we’ll go down there. I mean, who knows. Maybe there’s nothing even down there.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure thing, Sammy.”


	8. Chapter 8

The walls of the staircase press inwards on both sides, tight enough that Dean feels it in his chest, his shoulders scraping along the wood as he and Sam slowly descend. The stairs squeak loudly under them, the boards threatening to give way, but thankfully they hold.

The air is cool and dusty. The closer to the door Dean gets, the quicker his heart starts to pound. Something pulls at him from the inside out, gentle and coaxing. He tries to slow his breathing and shifts, moving so Sam can see.

Dean twists the doorknob and pushes. The door doesn’t open. He tries again, harder. The door stays put.

“Damn thing’s stuck,” he says. He gives it a good shove, pushing his weight into it. Sam manages to wiggle in next to him, pressing against his chest and squishing him against the opposite wall. Dean grunts when Sam’s knee bumps his bad one.

“Sorry,” Sam says. “You got it?”

“No, you gotta help me,” Dean says.

Sam rearranges himself and together they throw themselves against the door, finally forcing it open with a bang. They stumble down the last step, Sam grabbing him just before he hits the ground and righting him, careful to avoid straining his leg further. Dean dusts off his hands and lets out a breath that catches in his throat.

“Holy shit,” he says.

The room is large, about the size of the entire cabin. The ground underneath their boots is old wood flooring, warped and cracked, but solid. The room is cool and damp, dark. Smells of dust and mildew, the faint smell of swamp water, of something fresh and wet, like the air before a thunderstorm.

There’s a door at the opposite end of the room, much the same as the one they just burst through. But it’s the walls that have Dean’s attention. Every inch of them are covered in weird symbols. At first Dean thinks it’s old, faded paint, but when he runs his fingers over them, the edges of them dig into his skin. They’re etched right into the wood.

“Are these… sigils?” Sam asks, using the light of his phone as he moves around the room. “Y’know, kinda like the ones from dad’s journal? But I’ve never seen anything like these ones before.”

“You’re better at that stuff than I am, Sammy,” Dean says, moving along the wall, brushing his hand against the scratches and lines, the weird, sharp angles that form the different symbols. Despite how nervous he was about coming down here, now that he’s here, the place feels still. Calm, almost.

There’s still the pull in his chest, something that keeps making his eye wander toward the door at the other end of the room, but it’s faint and easy to ignore.

 

///

 

“We need to tell Bobby,” Sam says as Dean hands him a bowl of macaroni and cheese. “He’s got all those books, he’d probably be able to find something.”

“Nah, Bobby’s not gonna help,” Dean sets his bowl down and sits at the table, grabbing his fork.

Sam frowns at him. “Why not? It’s Bobby.”

“Cuz anytime I even mention this place to him, he clamps up like a nervous prom date,” Dean says. “I’ve tried, Sam. When the damn door fucking magicked itself into existence in the first place, I went over there and Bobby just…”

Dean shakes his head.

“Just what?” Sam asks.

“Nothing,” Dean stabs at his lunch. “Forget it.”

“Dean—”

“He wasn’t gonna help me, Sam, okay? He just—he thought I was drunk.”

Sam fidgets uncomfortably, looking away to poke at his food.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Well,” Sam says, not looking at him. “It’s just. I can kinda see where he’s coming from.”

Dean stops chewing. Sam shifts again.

“We talked about it a bit. Over the phone,” he says carefully. “And we think—maybe—you should… talk to someone?”

“Talk to someone,” Dean says. “What, like a therapist?”

Sam doesn’t say anything.

“I ain’t talking to a fucking _therapist_ , Sam,” Dean says. “That’s like Hunter 101. You don’t _talk to people_ , that’s how you get locked up!”

“So, what? You’re just going to drink yourself stupid?” Sam snaps. “Dad tried that, Dean. You know how well that worked. This stuff isn’t just going to go away if you drown it in alcohol.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell gonna try,” Dean says, going back to his food.

“Look. I get it, okay? This place is fucked, and I’ll back you on that, you know I will,” Sam says. “But Dean, you have to meet me halfway here. You can’t just keep shit from me and expect me to keep pretending that everything’s fine. That I don’t see you slowly killing yourself.”

“Okay, we’re done talking,” Dean grabs his bowl and stands up. He moves to leave the kitchen, to go sit on the porch, alone, but Sam pushes himself out of his chair and follows him, stopping him before he can reach the front door.

“No, I’m not done talking,” he says. “You need to get it through your head that Dad’s deal with Yellow Eyes, that Gordon—it’s not on you.”

“Sam, I will punch you. I swear to God.”

Sam deflates. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“Because I lied to you, okay?” Dean says. “There, you happy now?”

Sam stops and frowns at him. “What do you mean? When?”

Dean swallows. This is really not how he wanted this to go. He scratches at the back of his neck and shrugs.

“Look. Dad going down in a deal, yeah. It was stupid, and I feel guilty. I’m always gonna feel guilty. But I’m pissed off, too. At him. He was—but Gordon. That’s my fault. He was using me to get to you.”

Sam stills. “What?”

“He said he knew where Yellow Eyes was, that he’d been following his activity and knew where he was going. So we teamed up to go after him,” Dean says. “But he was just tracking you, and he was using me to do it.”

“But he was a vampire,” Sam says. “You said he got turned on a hunt.”

“He didn’t. He wasn’t anything,” Dean says. “He was gonna kill you, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, jaw clenching.

“I got played hard, okay? I was stupid,” Dean says. Then he huffs out a humorless laugh. “Guess that’s why Dad always told us we’re better off hunting alone. Shit like this happens.”

“No, shit like this happens _because_ you were alone,” Sam says. “You should have told me you were going after Yellow Eyes instead of going off on your own for a year— _a year_ —without a word from you.”

“You went back to school,” Dean says. “I didn’t want to ruin that for you.”

“That would have been my choice, Dean, not yours!”

“Yeah, well. I’m done with it, okay?” Dean says. “You’re here now, and I’m here now.”

“Barely,” Sam says.

Dean opens his mouth to respond but Sam looks away.

“I think I’m going to head into town for a bit,” he says. He reaches behind Dean to grab his coat off the hook by the door and says, “See you later.”

“Sam,” Dean tries.

Sam just looks at him and Dean deflates. He nods and steps away from the door. Sam pulls it open and shuts it roughly behind him, his footsteps loud on the front porch as he walks away.

 

///

 

Dean works on the floor for a bit, needing a distraction. He carefully avoids going anywhere near the door in the kitchen. He gets a better part of the floor done before his leg starts to hurt and he gives up for the evening, grabbing a beer out of the fridge and checking his phone to find a message.

  
From: Sam [5:26pm]  
Out late. Don’t wait up.

He tucks his phone into his pocket. He goes to crack open the bottle of beer but hesitates, turning the bottle over in his hand, tapping his fingers against the glass. With a sigh he puts it back into the fridge. He grabs his coat off the wall and heads outside.

 

///

 

A black cat watches him from its perch on the porch. Dean hesitates at the end of Cas’s drive, taking a step forward, towards the cabin, before chickening out and stopping, taking another two steps back. Christ. He’s done scarier shit than confront his weird-ass, probably-harmless neighbor. Dean wipes his hands on his jeans and walks up the drive.

The cat meows at him and rises, stretching its back, and walks over to him, its tail high. Dean ignores it, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other reaching up to knock on the door. The cat chirps and headbutts his hip.

“Piss off,” Dean mutters to it just as the door opens.

Cas frowns at him. “I live here.”

“Not you,” Dean says. “The cat. I just. I’m—whatever. Hi.”

“Hello,” Cas says.

Dean sighs. “Look. Can we talk?”

Cas studies him for a moment, expression drawn, unreadable. Finally he opens the door wider and steps aside so Dean can enter the cabin. Dean gives him a thankful nod and steps inside, wiping his boots on the mat before toeing them off and following Cas into the living room.

The cabin is small, but open. There’s a couch, and an armchair, the orange cat sleeping in it. There’s potted plants in just about every window, a desk in the corner, and shelves and shelves of books. The kitchen juts off from the living room, hidden from view by a step and a doorway, and a set of stairs leads up to a small loft.

Cas plunks down on the couch and tosses a book aside onto the coffee table, making room for Dean to sit next to him. Dean does, wincing when his knee throbs. Cas watches him closely but keeps quiet.

Dean clears his throat. “It’s, uh. Nice. Your place, I mean. Cozy.”

“Yes,” Cas says, looking around the room. “I think so.”

“You have cats,” Dean says.

“I do,” Cas nods. “Theseus is the orange one. I believe you’ve already met Daedalus.”

Dean pauses. “Those are… Greek, right?”

Cas nods again. “Daedalus was the father of Icarus. He built the Labyrinth. Theseus was the hero who killed its Minotaur.”

Dean stares at him. Then he starts to laugh.

Cas blinks. “Have I said something funny?”

“Sorry,” Dean says. “It’s, uh—never mind. Long story.”

“Okay,” Cas says. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah,” Dean clears his throat. Shifts awkwardly in his seat. He looks down at his knees, at the hole in his jeans, feels Cas’s eyes on him. “Uh, look. The other day, at the café. Sorry I kinda blew up at you.”

“Well,” Cas says. “I may have been out of line.”

“I dunno. Just cuz you don’t listen to gossip doesn’t mean you don’t hear it. Especially if you’re hanging around Charlie,” Dean says. “I just—I’m not really good with this whole… having friends thing. My life—I find it kinda hard to trust people.”

Cas’s mouth twitches at the corner. “I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah,” Dean picks at the hole in his jeans. “Well.”

Cas watches Dean’s fingers. “I figured you had your reasons. We all do. Though, admittedly, at first I wondered if you were just trying to keep your air of mystery and intrigue.”

Dean looks up at him.

“People are more attractive when they have those,” Cas says. “Once yours is gone I imagine I’ll find you quite boring.”

Dean stares. “Uh.”

“I’m kidding,” Cas says.

“Oh,” Dean says.

Cas smiles at him.

Dean clears his throat. “So. If you don’t mind me asking, why did you start, uh. Using?”

Cas’s smile fades and he falls quiet.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Shit—just. Ignore me.”

“No,” Cas says. “It’s fine. Two years ago I had an accident. I woke up in the hospital with most of my memory gone. The doctors told me it was a car accident, but I don’t remember. I don’t remember much from before that.

“But there are things I do remember,” Cas says. “My brother and I sitting at the edge of the ocean, watching a storm come in, and seeing a fish swim up to the shore. And Anna, she would tell me stories about a giant garden in such vivid detail that it was like I was there.”

“That sounds nice,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “I don’t dream. I don’t even have nightmares. I imagine nightmares aren’t very fun, but I think I’d like to experience one, just once. But I don’t. I sleepwalk instead. And when I can’t sleep I like to remember Anna’s stories about the garden.”

“And that’s why you started?” Dean asks.

“No,” Cas says. “I started doing drugs because of the voices.”

Dean blinks. That—wow. Okay.

“Voices?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cas says. “In my head. Something horrible happened but they won’t say what. But I think—I think it was my fault. I think I did something very bad.”

Dean says, “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Cas shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

Dean just looks at him and Cas sighs.

“As you can imagine, the drugs didn’t help. I wound up addicted instead,” Cas says. “But that’s how I met Hannah. She’s sort of my sober companion.”

“Wow,” Dean says. Cas nods in agreement.

“Your turn,” he says.

Dean looks at him. Cas looks back, hesitating. He reaches a hand out above Dean’s injured knee. When Dean doesn’t move away, Cas lowers his hand. He has nice hands. Warm, soft. Gentle. His thumb brushes over the scars, careful, and Dean feels goosebumps break out along his skin. Christ. It’s been a while since he’s let anyone touch him like that. He always flinches away too soon.

“Right,” Dean clears his throat. “That.”

“Yes. That.” Cas moves his hand away and Dean tries not to let his disappointment show.

He licks his lips, steels himself for this conversation. It still feels a little raw, after his argument with Sam earlier. But Cas was honest with him, told him something huge, and now he’s looking at him with kind eyes, quiet and patient.

So Dean tells him about John. He tells him about drifting for a year, and meeting Gordon. He leaves out the stuff about demons and vampires, but he tells Cas everything else, and Cas just watches him, pressed close to his side, listening without a word.

Afterwards, Cas asks, “Does anyone else know?”

“Sam knows, now. And Bobby knows most of it, yeah,” Dean says. “He sent some buddies of his who were nearby out my way to clean up the mess. I guess I passed out after that, cuz the next thing I woke up in the hospital.”

“I’m glad you weren’t alone,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He looks up and says, “Hey, Cas. How did you know?”

Cas hesitates, sitting up straighter and looking away. After a moment he inhales, nods, as if to himself, and turns back to look at Dean.

“I want to show you something,” he says.


	9. Chapter 9

Cas’s kitchen is small, but tidy. There’s a back door leading out onto a porch, where more potted plants line the railings. A path past the steps leads to a pair of trees with a hammock strewn between them.

Cas gestures for Dean to sit at the table. Dean watches him grab the kettle and fill it with water from the tap, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard and dumping in teabags. He moves quickly, automatically. Then he slows and bends down under the sink, disappearing from view for a minute. When he reappears, he’s holding a closed wooden box. The kettle gurgles into life.

“This might make you uncomfortable,” Cas says, like talking about drug addiction and voices and Dean killing a guy wasn’t.

Cas sets the box on the kitchen table and opens the latch.

“I found these one morning after an episode,” he says, sorting through the box. “I can’t read them, but they’re in my handwriting. I’ve been saving them ever since I started. It didn’t happen often, at first. But then when you moved into your place—ah, here. This one’s the first one, from shortly after my accident.”

He pulls out a sheet of paper and sets it down on the table. Dean picks it up. Most of the writing on the page is just scribbles. Weird-looking symbols, like the ones in his room under the stairs.

But there, right in the center of the page, it says _Dean Winchester_.

“I didn’t hear your name from someone in town, Dean,” Cas says. “I heard it in my head.”

Dean lays the piece of paper back down.

“Man,” he says. “That is seriously fucked up.”

Cas smiles. He takes the paper and puts it back into the box, locking the clasp.

“We make a good pair, then,” he says.

“Yeah, I guess we do,” Dean says.

Cas watches him, rubbing his thumb along the seam of the box. Dean watches his thumb, nibbling on his bottom lip. When he looks up Cas is staring at his mouth, and when Dean catches his eye, Cas blinks and licks his lips.

The kettle starts to whistle. Dean clears his throat. Cas moves away from the table, towards the kettle, grabbing it off the stove and turning towards the mugs. Dean gets out of his chair and moves towards him.

“Would you like it sweetened?” Cas asks, pouring the water.

“I’ll take it however,” Dean says.

Cas looks at him.

“Okay,” he says.

He puts the kettle back on the stove. He turns around, takes a step, and suddenly he’s there, pressing into Dean’s space. Dean inhales, sharp, Cas’s hands sliding along his jaw and cupping his cheek. He brushes his lips softly against Dean’s.

There’s rough stubble against his skin, and the whole thing’s a bit lopsided, but when Dean wraps an arm around Cas’s hips and pulls him closer, lifts his other hand to tangle his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, Cas hums against his mouth and deepens the kiss.

Then he pulls back, slightly out of breath, and says, “Sorry.”

“What?” Dean says. “Dude, no. Don’t—don’t apologize, Jesus.”

“Dean, how many times do I have to—”

Dean kisses him again and Cas shuts up, relaxing against him, into him, nudging him until the kitchen counter is digging into his back and he all but whimpers. Cas breaks away to huff out a laugh and Dean chases after him, pulls him back in for more.

“I thought I scared you off,” Cas murmurs.

“Nah,” Dean says. “I don’t scare easy.”

“I’m glad.”

Cas kisses him again, slipping his thigh in between Dean’s, crowding close, pressing him harder into the counter. Hard enough that it hurts a bit, but Dean seriously, really does not care, because Cas brushes his tongue against his bottom lip, teasing, and grinds his thigh against him, making him moan softly and arch into it. Cas moves to mouth at the spot under his ear, breath hot against his neck, and Dean’s knees threaten to give out from under him.

“Do you, uh. Maybe have a bed we could move this to?” he asks.

“Mm. No,” Cas says.

Dean frowns and pulls away. “You don’t have a bed? Where do you sleep?”

“Oh, no. I do,” Cas says. “But you won’t be seeing it tonight.”

“Oh. Okay,” Dean says. “That’s cool. No rush.”

Cas looks at him. “I have to wake up early tomorrow. For work.”

“Right,” Dean says. “I knew that.”

“And the delayed gratification can’t hurt.”

Apparently something’s in this town’s water.

“You like that?” Dean asks.

“If I think it’s going to be worth waiting for,” Cas says.

He pulls away, out from between Dean’s legs, and grabs his tea off the counter. Dean stares at him, watching him take a drink. Cas smiles at him from around the rim of the mug and Dean feels his stomach flutter. Fuck. He’s fucked.

He clears his throat and grabs his own mug, leaving a respectable distance between him and Cas.

“So, uh. I have an idea,” he says.

“Oh?” Cas asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. How he managed to think of it with Cas grinding against his dick, he’ll never know. “You know Kevin and Charlie, right? Kevin’s pretty good with languages. Charlie and my friend, Ash, they’re both computer geniuses. And Bobby, he’s got enough weird books he could open his own library.”

“Okay,” Cas says. “So?”

“So,” Dean says. “What if we brought them one of your papers? See if they can translate it.”

Cas thinks on it for a moment, taking another drink from his mug. He looks towards the wooden box still sitting on the table and nibbles on his bottom lip.

Then he gives Dean a nod and says, “All right.”

 

///

 

  
To: Kevin, Charlie [9:12pm]  
Roadhouse. Before close. Bring your laptops.

  


  
From: Charlie [9:15pm]  
Aye aye, Captain!

  


  
From: Kevin [9:21pm]  
Buy me beer?

  


  
To: Kevin [9:24pm]  
Fuck off, kid. See you tomorrow.

 

///

 

The cabin is quiet when Dean gets home. He flicks on the kitchen light and stares at the door. It hasn’t changed since he left a few hours ago, at least. But that doesn’t mean anything for what’s beyond it. Dean grabs a flashlight from his toolbox and sets his scrap of Cas’s note down on the table, moving towards the door.

The staircase is just as narrow as it was this morning. The door at the end is the same shape, the same size. Dean holds his breath and twists the handle, looser now that he and Sam practically busted the damn thing down. He pushes the door open.

The room inside hasn’t changed. Everything, right down to the sigils and the door at the end, is exactly the same.

Dean lets out his breath and moves beyond the door, clicking on his flashlight and pulling out his phone. He tries to keep his hand steady as he takes pictures of each wall. Then he tucks his phone away, leaving through the door and back up the stairs as quickly as he can.

Once he’s back in the kitchen, door shut behind him, he turns off his flashlight and his breathing slowly returns to normal.

 

///

 

  
To: Bobby [10:30pm]  
**Attachment:** IMG_1083.jpg  
Think you can find what this is?

  


  
From: Bobby [10:32pm]  
Do I look like Google to you?

  


  
To: Bobby [10:38pm]  
Thanks, Bobby.

 

///

 

Just after two in the morning, Dean hears the front door shut and footsteps walk down the hall to the guestroom. He stares at the blade he found, resting on his nightstand, glinting in the light of the moon. Then the cabin falls quiet. He’s learned to tune out the frogs, ignore the buzzing of mosquitos at the windows.

The windows that he can’t remember not ever being there, but he’s pretty sure, at some point, weren’t.

There’s something alive in Dean’s cabin. He can feel it. Under the floorboards, beneath the stairs that shouldn’t be there, where it’s dark. It beats like a heart. It changes its face in the middle of the night. It feels like it’s reaching out to him, and he has no idea why.

 

///

 

He’s standing in Bobby’s house. Meg’s meatsuit is there, shouting at him that she was a college student, that she was awake when she was possessed. Two little girls that Bobby knows chase him into his lot. A man Dean’s never met before, but who he knows—somehow—is named Victor, corners Sam in the kitchen until Dean blasts him with rock salt.

 

///

 

There’s a bundle of pale red pressed against the glass of his window in the morning. When he goes over to inspect it, he finds the sparrow lying dead on his windowsill, completely still except for her feathers twitching gently in the morning breeze.

 

///

 

“Run this by me again,” Sam says as they drive into town.

They spent all day making awkward conversation as they finished laying the floor in the kitchen. Dean made them dinner and brought it out onto the back porch, carrying a pitcher of ice water instead of a cooler of beer. Sam didn’t say anything, but he warmed up again after that, talking animatedly about his night out with Sarah.

“I sent Bobby a picture of the—the room,” Dean says. “He said he’d look into it. We’re bringing Charlie and Kevin a copy of Cas’s notes to see if they can translate the part that has my name on it. Whoever figures it out first wins.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “So your weird neighbor has notes with your name on it that he wrote two years before meeting you, in a language he doesn’t understand, that just happens to be the same language that’s written on the walls in the room in your basement that wasn’t there when you first moved in.”

“Yup,” Dean says.

“Dude,” Sam rubs at his eyes. “For once—just _once_ —I’d like to go somewhere and not have a case pop up.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean says. He turns on the radio and presses down the gas pedal.

 

///

 

Charlie and Kevin are already waiting for them when they arrive at the Roadhouse, laptops out and ready to go. Jo hovers around Charlie’s laptop, laughing at something on the screen—most likely a cat video—while Charlie watches her fondly. Kevin eyes the shelf of alcohol behind the bar, Ellen watching him closely. Ash lingers nearby, staring off at nothing in particular, looking bored.

“Geek Squad,” Dean says as he approaches the bar, waving Ash over.

Jo gives them a nod and wanders off to distract a few of the other patrons with a game of darts. Charlie watches her go until Dean pulls out a stool next to her, the legs grinding against the floor, and slumps down. Sam sits down next to Ash.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Dean says.

“Are we getting paid?” Kevin asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “With my devoted, undying affection.”

“That won’t buy me the new _Grand Theft Auto_ ,” Kevin says.

Dean looks at him. “I have no idea what that is.”

Sam clears his throat.

“Anyway,” Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper. “I need you guys to translate something for me.”

They lean closer as Dean spreads it out on the bar, trying to press away the wrinkles and folds.

“Why does it have your name on it?” Ash asks.

“It’s a long story,” Sam says. “Trust me.”

“What language is that?” Charlie asks. “It looks old.”

“That’s what I’m hoping you guys can figure out,” Dean says. “Bobby’s on it, too.”

“How are we supposed to translate something if we don’t even know what language it is?” Kevin asks.

“You guys are the geniuses, figure something out,” Dean says.

“Where’d you even get this?” Charlie asks.

“It’s—look. I just need you to translate it. I’ll explain after, okay?”

“I have an idea,” Ash says, picking up the piece of paper. “It might take a couple of days, but if Charlie helps me, I can code a program that will search the internet for similar symbols based off a digital scan of your example. Then we should be able to find what language it is. If anything’s been translated before, Kevin here can help us work off that to make sense of these scribbles.”

“Oh. Yay,” Kevin says. Ash ruffles his hair affectionately.

“Okay,” Charlie nods. “I’m in. But you’re so buying me a pizza and explaining all this to me after.”

“Deal,” Dean says.

Ash whips out his beast of a laptop from seemingly nowhere, and he and Charlie start typing away, muttering computer mumbo-jumbo to each other as they work off the other’s screen, hands moving almost too fast to see. Kevin makes a list of similar-looking symbols off to the side, Ellen sliding him a tall glass of Coke across the bar with a wink as Jo comes back with a wad of cash. The group of men she had been playing grab their coats and shake their heads as they leave.

The Roadhouse falls into a comfortable quiet. Dean orders two beers, sliding the second one over to Sam.

“So, you think this’ll work?” Sam asks, nodding towards the small team Dean’s assembled.

“God, I hope so,” Dean says. “The sooner we get this shit figured out the better.”

“And you haven’t felt anything weird?” Sam asks. “No cold spots, no—I dunno. Malevolent forces?”

Dean shakes his head. “Dude, I don’t even know anymore.”

He goes to take a drink from his beer, which is when the door slams open. Dean’s hand slips, sending the beer toppling onto its side and nearly into his lap. He jumps out of way just in time, swearing, and Sam whacks him in the arm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ellen says, rushing out from behind the bar.

Dean turns away from the mess, scowling, but the air goes out of his lungs and his stomach drops violently at the sight of Cain standing in the doorway, the entire front of his shirt covered in dark, wet blood.

Dean’s moving towards the door in an instant, Sam close behind him. The others stare from where they’re sitting, either frozen or unwilling to move. Ellen starts fussing, looking for a wound, but Cain shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“What the hell happened?” Ellen asks. “You don’t answer your damn phone, you don’t show up for work all day, and when you do you’re covered in blood?”

“Abaddon sent some of her friends to question me,” Cain says. “They wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Abaddon’s friends,” Dean says. “Demons?”

Cain looks at him and nods.

Dean says, “And you’re still alive?”

“Like I said,” Cain says. “They wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

 

///

 

Dean doesn’t bother with the radio on the way back to the cabin. He stares out the front window as he drives, one hand on the wheel, moving on auto-pilot. If he runs any stop signs or takes a corner too sharp, Sam doesn’t say anything.

Once they’re back at the cabin, Dean grabs more beer. He hands one over to Sam and sits next to him on the couch. They stare at the wall, movements robotic. Then Sam snaps out of it, shaking his head.

“How do you even kill a demon?” he says. “ _Can_ you even kill a demon?”

“I have no idea,” Dean says.

“But Cain said—”

“I know.”

“I mean, how did he even know how?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

Sam taps his fingers against his beer bottle.

“Look,” he says, turning to face Dean. “I know I was only going to stay for a little bit, but with everything that’s happening—with the cabin, and now this—I’m going to see this through with you, okay?”

Dean takes a drink and rubs at his knee.

Sam shifts in his seat. “So. I guess I should tell you that I—uh. Kinda looked Cas up earlier.”

Dean looks up at that.

“I didn’t find anything,” Sam says. “No police reports, no property ownership, no family records. I mean, normally I get _something_ , even if it’s to tell me there’s nothing. But that’s it. I found literally nothing.”

Dean thumbs at the beer label.

“I mean, are you sure this guy is who he says he is?” Sam asks.

“I trust him, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam stares at him. Which is probably pretty fair, considering just about everything that’s happened in their lives up to recently. Especially when they start trusting people. Dean sighs.

“Dude, don’t. Okay?” he says. “I know it’s fucked up. I can’t even explain it. I just… I do. I trust him.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “But Dean? Just, y’know. Be careful.”

Dean finishes his beer. Then he gets up and grabs another.

 

///

 

Later, after Sam’s gone to bed, Dean grabs a shovel and his work gloves from the shed, glancing at the empty nest as he goes.

Upstairs, the dead bird is still lying on his windowsill. Wings spread out, dirty, her pale red feathers ruffled. Her head is turned at an awkward angle. Her small black eyes stare up at him, clouded over and lifeless. Dean’s never paid much attention to animals, they were always just sort of _there_ , but nothing he concerned himself with. Looking down at the dead sparrow, his heart sinks a little.

He peels off the window screen and pulls his work gloves out of his pocket. Carefully, he scoops the bird up into his hands. She’s weightless in his palms. He brings her downstairs and outside to the backyard, walking along the edge of the swamp. He finds a suitable place, underneath a tall tree, and digs a small hole. He lowers the bird into it and buries her in the ground.


	10. Chapter 10

Cas is back in the brown overcoat. Dean feels him before he sees him. A tingle down his spine, a brief moment where the air feels a bit too tight, the Earth feels a bit too small.

He remembers how it felt when Cas spread his wings, and briefly wonders if he’d be able to touch them. If they’d feel soft and silky in his hands, like the feathers of a bird.

 

///

 

These dreams are messing with his head. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, face prickling with shame, skin overheated, and tries to steady his breathing. After a few minutes he manages, letting his hands drop from his face.

It’s early enough to still be dark outside, the night quiet, only the occasional croak of the odd frog. Something flutters near his window, the sound of light scratching, of something small moving along the windowsill.

Dean frowns and tries to ignore it. The thing makes a quiet chirping noise. With a sigh, Dean rolls over to look, and his heart nearly jumps out of his throat. He bolts upright, the sheet pooling in his lap, and stares, open-mouthed, at the window.

The red house sparrow stares back at him.

 

///

 

When the sun comes up, he throws on a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt and makes his way downstairs. There’s a note taped onto the coffee maker:

> _Gone out for a run. If I’m not back in an hour I’ve been eaten by a bear.  
>  \- Sam_

Dean pours himself a mug of coffee and texts Charlie. 

  
To: Charlie [7:08am]  
How’s the battle coming?

  


  
From: Charlie [7:12am]  
So far the program thinks everything is French. Except for French. That it thinks is German.

  


  
To: Charlie [7:14am]  
I don’t read either but I’m pretty sure the note’s not in French or German.

  


  
From: Charlie [7:16am]  
Lis ca, espece de tyran.

  


  
To: Charlie [7:17am]  
Gesundheit.

He avoids looking at the door to the staircase. It wants him to look, to turn to it, to have him walk down the steps and into the room at the bottom. He dumps a shot of whiskey into his coffee and crumples up Sam’s note, tossing it into the garbage as he walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway, out the back door.

It’s already muggy outside, the sun hidden behind grey clouds. Dean walks across the backyard, feet sinking deeper into the grass the closer to the swamp’s edge he gets. He picks his way through the mud to where he buried the sparrow, holding his breath as he gets closer.

The grave is untouched. The dirt just as smooth and hard as it was last night when he finished burying her. Dean sets his mug aside in the grass and drops to his knees, ignoring the dull throb of pain, and pushes his hands into the ground.

He digs, pulling up rocks and clumps of dirt. He only buried her a foot or so deep before the ground became too soft. He speeds up his digging, his hands shaking, the hole quickly filling with water.

It’s empty. Dean stops digging. His hands leave mud prints on his thighs.

 

///

 

The symbols on the wall haven’t changed. Dean stands in the center of the room, the knees of his jeans still wet from sitting in the mud, dirt still under his nails, and stares at the door at the opposite side.

His skin hums. Something pulls at him from his chest, knocking against his ribs from the inside out. The room is quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in on all sides. The kind of quiet that’s suffocating. Dean waits, holding his breath, blood pumping in his ears.

The front door shuts upstairs and Sam calls, “Dean?”

“Down here,” Dean calls back. Sam’s footsteps slow above him, then stop.

“Hey,” Sam says. “I don’t know if you should be down there by yourself.”

“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean says. Sam’s footsteps clump against the ceiling, walking away.

With one last look at the opposite door, he turns around to head back upstairs.

The other door is gone.

Dean looks around the room, at the symbols, at the floor, at the ceiling, but everything else is the same. There’s only one door in the room and it’s at the opposite end.

Dean’s hands go numb. Shit.

“Sam?” he calls. Sam doesn’t respond.

Dean presses his hand against the wall, trying to find a seam, trying to find some sort of sign that there used to be a door here. A nick, a crack, a draft, anything. There’s nothing, just solid wall, cool against the palm of his hands.

“Sammy!” Dean tries again. “Dammit. _Sam!_ ”

“What?” Sam says above him, sounding muffled and far away.

“The door’s gone!” Dean says, trying to keep his voice calm. “I can’t get out!”

“ _What?_ ”

There’s footsteps above him again, the sound of Sam running down the narrow staircase. Only it comes from the wrong side of the room, away from where the door upstairs originally was, coming instead from behind the door on the opposite wall.

There’s the sound of a door opening, and then Sam shouts, “Dean!”

Dean stares at the door.

“Dean, answer me!” Sam says.

“I’m here!” Dean says.

“Where?” Sam asks.

“I’m—in the room, still. The one with the weird symbols.”

“Uh. Dean, that’s where I am right now,” Sam says. “You’re not in here.”

Dean swallows, still staring at the door. His heart pounds.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna try something.”

“What?” Sam says. “No, wait. Dean, don’t do anything yet, maybe I can—”

“Just stay there, Sam, dammit!” Dean says.

He steps toward the door. Something lurches in his chest, pushes at him, trying to keep him in place. It feels like walking through thick snow, feels like he’s shoving against something heavy in front of him, each step trying to force him back.

By the time he reaches the door he’s panting and out of breath, sweat rolling down his back. He turns the door handle and closes his eyes, pulling the door open and toppling through. There’s solid ground under his feet. The pushing in his chest dulls to a quiet throb.

“Oh, thank god,” Sam says.

Dean opens his eyes. Sam visibly relaxes from where he stands in the opposite doorway, hand still on the handle, the last of the rickety steps clearly visible under his feet.

Dean lets out his breath, shaking.

 

///

 

“I thought you said Bobby won’t talk about the cabin,” Sam says, easily keeping up with Dean as he stomps his way down the porch steps towards the Impala.

Dean unlocks the door and throws it open. “He won’t, but I ain’t leaving there without answers.”

“Dean—”

“Are you coming or not?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts from one foot to the next, then nods. Dean gets into the car and unlocks the passenger door. Sam slides in next to him, the car rocking with the weight, and barely has his door closed before Dean’s starting the engine and peeling out of the driveway.

Bobby is on the phone when they arrive, looking gruff and pissed off at whoever is talking his ear off on the other end. He waves them inside and shuts the door behind them, shuffling back into the living room to thumb through a book. One of his old hunting buddies, Rufus, looks up at them from where he’s sitting on the couch, book in his lap. They give him a wave and Rufus huffs, rolling his eyes in the direction of Bobby’s phone.

“It sounds like an alpha to me,” Bobby says. He pauses, listening, then says, “How do you _normally_ test for shifters, Garth? And did it have a reaction? Well then it’s probably a damn shifter!”

Bobby sighs loudly and shuts the phone off, tossing it onto the couch.

“You’re taking the next one,” he says to Rufus.

“Oh, hell no, Bobby,” Rufus closes the book in his lap and gets off the couch. “I came by for a shovel three hours ago. That’s it. I ain’t here to play Monster University with the kids.”

“New recruit?” Sam asks as Rufus shuffles past him and out the front door.

“Nah, just a dumbass,” Bobby says. He looks Dean up and down. The mud on his jeans is starting to cake and fall off in chunks. “The hell you get yourself into now?”

“I need to know about the cabin,” Dean says.

“The cabin?”

“ _My_ cabin,” Dean says.

Bobby looks at Sam. “You boys had breakfast yet?”

“Bobby!” Dean snaps. Bobby looks at him and Dean says, “I ain’t screwing around here. Something seriously fucked up is happening, and whenever I bring it up to anyone they act like they have no clue what I’m talking about. Even you. And that—that scares the hell out of me.”

Bobby inhales and glances past Dean’s shoulder, out the window.

“Please,” Dean tries.

“Dean. It’s—I can’t—”

“Well try harder!” Dean says. “Me and Sam went down those stairs and there’s a room down there, with another door. I went down there this morning and I got stuck. The door disappeared.”

Bobby shifts uncomfortably.

“Those symbols I sent you the other day?” Dean says. “They came from that room.”

“I need a drink,” Bobby mutters. He walks into the kitchen, Dean following with Sam close behind. Bobby pours them each a glass and hands them over, sitting down at his kitchen table. Bobby downs his drink and shakes his head, pouring himself another one.

“It’s hard to explain. I can’t really remember the details. It’s like they’re there, but they’re foggy. Like something’s holding them down,” he looks at Dean and says, “And don’t you think that don’t scare the hell out of me neither.”

“Try,” Sam says. “Seriously, Bobby. Anything you can remember, no matter how small, we think it’d really help.”

Bobby sighs and scratches his head. “I used to go up that way every week to get a cut of venison from Lafitte. Now I might be wrong—probably am—but I’m pretty sure there was nothin’ else there. Just woods and swamp and that old, abandoned cabin at the end of the road.

“Then one week I go up there, as usual, and the cabin’s there. It’s just— _there_. An old-lookin’ cabin just sittin’ there on the swamp. The same swamp I could’ve sworn had nothin’ on it the week before,” Bobby takes another drink. “I asked Benny about it and he had no idea what I was talkin’ about. Talked about it like it had always been there. Said they should’ve torn that place down ages ago.”

Dean swallows and glances at Sam, who shifts in his seat.

Bobby continues, “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I just wasn’t payin’ close enough attention. I don’t think the cabin was there before, but—but I can’t remember it not ever being there. Most days I barely think about it. Not like I don’t try. More like it doesn’t wanna be thought about.”

“Like it’s alive?” Sam asks.

Bobby shakes his head. “I ain’t got a clue.”

Sam deflates.

“But I do know one thing,” Bobby says, turning to Dean. “The day after I noticed that cabin, that neighbor of yours moved into town.”

 

///

 

There’s no answer when Dean knocks on Cas’s door. The orange cat—Theseus—watches him from his usual perch, tip of his tail flicking rhythmically. The other cat’s asleep on the porch, soaking up the sun.

Dean wanders back to his own cabin. The new countertops have come in. Eager for a distraction, he sets to work. Sam helps him without question, and runs through his seemingly endless theories about the cabin—thankfully forgoing the fairy-talk this time, but lingering on witches long enough to make Dean’s stomach start to turn.

Just before dinnertime, when they’ve moved into the guestroom to start pulling up the floor, Dean hears the sound of Cas’s Vespa passing by. He glances up toward the window.

“Go,” Sam says. “I’ll keep working here.”

“You sure?” Dean asks. Sam nods and goes back to hammering. Dean grabs his jacket and heads out the front door.

 

///

 

 

///

 

Cas is smoking on his front porch, Theseus curled in his lap, eyes closed and purring as Cas scratches behind his ears. Cas waves at him but doesn’t get up from his seat as Dean walks down the drive.

“Hey,” Dean says as he climbs the steps.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas watches him pull out a chair and sit down. He exhales a stream of smoke and flicks the end of his cigarette. “I was going to stop by later. I bought some seeds for your garden—vegetable seeds, of course. So you can continue to lie to yourself about it not being a garden.”

Dean nods, watching Cas’s fingers gently brush through Theseus’s fur. Cas stubs out his cigarette and shifts closer, frowning.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Not really,” Dean huffs out a laugh and rubs at his eye.

“What happened, what’s wrong?” Cas asks.

Dean lets his hand drop, looks up at him. Cas looks back, eyes searching. Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, taps through a few screens until he finds the image of the symbols that he sent Bobby. Then he hands the phone over.

Theseus jumps out of Cas’s lap when he reaches to take it. Cas doesn’t seem to notice, frowning at the screen before returning it.

“Where did you find that?” he asks.

“It’s in my cabin,” Dean tucks his phone back into his pocket. Cas frowns and Dean says, “You remember the first day we met, when you said there was a bird living in one of my upstairs windows, and I said there was only one?”

“Yes,” Cas says.

“That’s cuz I’m pretty sure there was only one window when I first moved in.”

Cas nods slowly. “I noticed that.”

“You—” Dean blinks at him. “You _noticed?_ ”

Cas nods again.

“Dude,” Dean says. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“Mm, probably because I hear voices,” Cas says. “And I sleepwalk. And I have a piece of paper from two years ago with your name on it.”

Right.

“I moved out here because I felt drawn to this spot. To your cabin. But there’s something about it that feels… off. Familiar, perhaps. Like déjà vu,” Cas says. “Then you moved into it, and the cabin grew a new window in the span of a day.”

Cas pulls out his pack of cigarettes, but it’s empty, a large crease in the logo’s wings from where it’s been handled. He sighs.

“You didn’t seem too concerned that your cabin was changing on its own,” he says. “I didn’t want to needlessly worry you. Especially if it turned out I was just imagining things. The last thing I wanted was for you to think I was crazy.”

“I never thought you were crazy, Cas,” Dean says.

Cas gives him one of his crooked smiles. “Thank you. At least that’s one of us.”

Dean watches him for a moment. “I wanna ask you something. It’s gonna seem weird.”

“Weirder than a cabin that changes by itself?” Cas asks.

Good point. “Kinda along those lines, yeah.”

“Go ahead,” Cas says.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Dean asks. “Werewolves, vampires, demons. That sorta thing?”

“Yes,” Cas says without hesitation. “But then, I have been clarified certifiable.”

“You’re not.” Dean shakes his head. “They’re real. All of them. Witches, wendigos, shapeshifters. All the shit you hear growing up, all those stories about things in your closet and under your bed. It’s all real. Me and Sam hunt them—or, well. We used to. We learned how from our dad.”

Cas stares at him. “You hunt vampires.”

“Yeah.”

“And… werewolves.”

“Yeah.”

Cas nods. Then he says, “Is it inappropriate that I find that sort of arousing?”

“Uh,” Dean blinks. “I dunno. No. But—look. Point is, my cabin, your notes? Something’s happening here. Something—something not human. And I think they might be connected somehow.”

“So what do we do?” Cas asks.

“Well, hopefully my friends can get your note translated. Then we’ll go from there,” Dean says. He hesitates and licks his lips. “But Cas, listen. I’m probably gonna need your help on this.”

Cas nods. “Of course, Dean. Anything.”


	11. Chapter 11

  
To: Charlie [8:40am]  
Any luck?

  


  
From: Charlie [8:51am]  
The program works, but it’s still searching.

  


  
To: Charlie [8:53am]  
Thanks, Charlie. I owe you a pizza. 

  


  
From: Charlie [8:57am]  
Going to need more than pizza.  
You’re coming LARPing with me next time.  
The queen needs a handmaiden.

 

///

 

Donna comes by the next day dressed in her work clothes. She gives Dean a grin when he opens the door and shoves a plate of homemade lemon squares into his arms before walking past him into the cabin.

“What are we working on today?” Donna asks, eyeing the new repairs and dutifully ignoring the door. “Kitchen looks good.”

“Thanks,” Dean tucks the plate of lemon squares into the fridge and hands Donna a beer. “I gotta gut the downstairs bathroom. Sam’s out doing research.”

It’s unlikely, but Dean doesn’t want to rule out ancient burial grounds and local legends he might have missed, just in case.

“Does he ever stop?” Donna asks.

Dean swallows his beer. “No, not really.”

Donna shakes her head fondly and says, “All right. Well, point me in the right direction.”

They remove the vanity and pull up the floor. Dean takes the whole sink out, leaving just the toilet. There’s not much room to get creative. By the time Cas arrives with his arms full of gardening supplies, they’ve laid down the new floor.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Cas says, spreading the seed packets on the kitchen table. “I brought a few of my old boxes to get you started. And a hose. It didn’t look like you had one.”

“I don’t,” Dean says. “Thanks, Cas. What do I owe you?”

Cas hums, eyes dropping to Dean’s mouth. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

Donna grins at them from the other side of the table and Dean feels his cheeks heat.

Outside, Cas hands them pairs of gardening gloves and spades, and sets two large buckets on either side of the front steps. Donna sets to work on the left side and Cas leads Dean over to the right, pulling on his gloves.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks, kneeling down into the grass.

“Uh, not really,” Dean says. “The last time I even lived in a place with a garden, it was my girlfriend’s. She only ever let me water it.”

Cas nods. “They’re a lot of work.”

“I don’t think she trusted me not to kill it,” Dean says.

“You’ll do fine,” Cas says. “Here. Hold this by the stem, near the ground.”

Dean does as he’s told, kneeling down next to Cas with a grunt, their shoulders brushing. Cas uses his spade to loosen the soil around the root of the weed, then gestures for Dean to pull. The plant comes out in one piece, leaving a small hole behind, the roots raining dirt onto the ground. Dean tosses the weed into the bucket and dusts off his gloves.

“Congratulations,” Cas says. “You pulled your first weed.”

“Awesome,” Dean says.

“Indeed. The achievement of a lifetime. You should be very proud,” Cas says.

“Oh, I am.”

“Good,” Cas smiles at him. “Now do that roughly a thousand more times and we’ll be ready to actually start gardening.”

Weeding is surprisingly hard work. With the sun beating down on them and quickly drying the ground, it’s harder to dig the weeds out by the roots. Cas works on the opposite end of the right garden, chatting with Donna over the porch stairs. She works faster than the both of them, her gloves covered in dirt and her knees grass-stained.

Dean’s busy fighting with a particularly difficult weed, muttering under his breath as he digs into the ground with his spade, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Relieved to have an excuse to take a break, he sits back in the grass and pulls off his gloves, setting them aside, and digs his phone out.

  
From: Charlie [5:16pm]  
So. We have good news and bad news. 

  


  
To: Charlie [5:18pm]  
Hit me.

  


  
From: Charlie [5:19pm]  
Come to the Roadhouse.

  
“You guys up for a car ride?” Dean asks.

“I should get going, actually,” Donna says, standing up and brushing herself off. “Gotta let the pooch out.”

“Thanks for your help, Donna,” Dean says.

She gives him a salute and waves to Cas before turning to her car. Cas pulls off his gloves and gets up, making his way over to Dean. He holds out his hand and Dean takes it, Cas pulling him up off the ground easily. Dean’s knee throbs, causing him to wobble slightly, and Cas steadies him with a hand at his back.

“How is it?” Cas asks.

“I’ll live,” Dean says.

Cas doesn’t move his hand. “Good.”

Dean watches Donna’s car back out of the driveway, her hand coming out of the window to give them a wave. Both he and Cas wave back as she drives off, a cloud of dust following behind her car. Dean looks at Cas and licks his lips. Cas’s mouth twitches and he pulls his hand away, fingers sliding along Dean’s hip.

“So. Where are we going?” he asks.

Right. The whole translating weird language, good news bad news, case-thing. That’s probably important. Dean clears his throat and gestures to the Impala. Cas looks over his shoulder to it then turns back to Dean.

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride in my sidecar?” he asks. “I have goggles you could wear.”

“I’m ain’t riding in the bitchseat of a damn scooter.”

“No? You’re missing out,” Cas says. “I’ve been told my ride is quite enjoyable.”

Dean shoves him towards the Impala.

 

///

 

They’re waiting for him in a booth in the back, Ash’s beast of a laptop taking up most of the table, Charlie’s scrunched up next to it. Bobby tips his hat to them as they walk past, and Ellen greets them with a nod, eyeing Cas curiously. Charlie frantically waves them over, sitting up on her knees.

Dean slides in next to her. Cas takes the seat next to Ash, who uses a chewed-up straw to point at him.

“Who’s this guy?”

“This is Cas,” Dean says. “He’s the one who wrote the note. Cas, Ash. Doesn’t look like it but the guy’s a genius.”

“Thanks, _compadre_ ,” Ash says.

“Hello,” Cas nods to him.

“So you scratched the freaky hieroglyphs with Dean’s name on them, huh?” Ash says. Cas nods and Ash says, “Cool. I don’t wanna wig you out or anything but, uh. This shit’s probably gonna mess with your noggin. So keep your seatbelt on.”

“What’ve you got?” Dean asks.

“Well, the bad news is we can’t translate it,” Charlie says.

“Why not?” Dean asks.

“Too old,” Ash says.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Lots of people translate old languages, though.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t just old,” Ash says, sitting up. “People can handle old. Hell, even Google can create a bastardized translation of Latin. We ran your buddy’s note through the program and the match we found was _old_ , man.”

“How old is old?” Dean asks.

“Um. Try older than man?” Charlie says.

Dean glances at Cas, who doesn’t say anything.

“It’s Enochian,” Bobby says, causing Dean to jump.

Bobby squeezes into the booth next to Cas. He pulls out a piece of paper from his back pocket and lays it out on the table, turning it around so Dean can read it. It’s a photocopy from one of his dusty old tomes, a dark, black and white image of a being with wings covering up a large portion of the right corner.

“They called me up after they found it,” Bobby says. “It took me hours to find the right book. I didn’t recognize it before because the only version I’d seen was written phonetically.”

“‘Celestial language’,” Dean reads.

Bobby says, “It’s used by angels.”

“What I wanna know is,” Ash turns to Cas. “How the hell do you know Enochian?”

Everyone looks up at Cas, who looks just as confused as the rest of them.

“I don’t,” he says. “I can’t read it. Not really. I—it’s blurry, almost. The words are there but I don’t understand them.”

“So I’m a little freaked out,” Charlie says. “Dean, maybe now’s a good time to share with the class?”

“It’s my cabin,” Dean says. Charlie looks away and Dean says, “Yeah, the cabin that suddenly appeared two years ago. No one wants to talk about it. It has that effect on people. I get it, okay?”

“What about it?” Charlie asks.

“I think it’s alive,” Dean says. “Or—I have no idea. It changes. It’s been growing. A room showed up under it one day, full of these—these Enochian sigils. And then Cas has a whole bunch’a notes written in the same language.”

Charlie nibbles on her bottom lip, glancing over at Cas. Dean sighs.

“We’re just tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s going on here. Maybe then my cabin will stop trying to fucking trap me in it, and the nightmares will go away and I can get a good night’s sleep for once,” Dean says. “But now you’re telling me it can’t be translated cuz this is some—some ancient, angelic language. Angels aren’t even real!”

“That demon who came in here seemed to disagree,” Bobby says.

Dean freezes.

Cas looks at him. “Demon?”

Somehow, through the whole mess of his cabin mutating, growing bigger on the inside, of Sam coming down and trying to _talk_ about things, of near-constant nightmares—and hell, even Cas distracting him with his hands and his notes and the faint smell of smoke, Dean managed to forget about Abaddon. 

Dean looks at Cas and says, “I have another idea.”

 

///

 

The moon is rising up through the trees by the time Dean pulls up Cas’s drive and puts the Impala in park. The car settles around them, the metal ticking as it cools. The breeze blows and Cas’s wood chimes clink together. Even as a rough shape in the dark, his cabin looks comforting. Small and cozy, warm and inviting. Dean lets his hands fall off the wheel and into his lap.

“Are you sure about this?” Cas asks.

“Not really,” Dean says. “But it’s the only idea I got.”

Cas looks out the front window. One of his cats wanders up the front porch, eyes flashing in the dark.

“What are they like?” Cas asks. Dean looks at him and Cas says, “The nightmares.”

“Vivid,” Dean rubs at his eye. “Really fucking vivid. And, uh. They’re weird. They feel real. I mean, _really_ real.”

Cas nods, watching him.

“I guess most nightmares feel real. But these,” Dean shakes his head. “I dunno, man.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says.

“Why?” Dean asks. “Not your fault.”

“I still feel responsible,” Cas says quietly. “I can’t really explain it.”

“Hey,” Dean turns in his seat, the leather squeaking under him. Cas looks at him, eyes tired, expression heavy. Dean presses closer and shakes his head. “You are not responsible, okay? This isn’t your fault.”

Cas looks down at his hands.

“Cas—you,” Dean stops, licks his lips. “These past few weeks—hell, these past few years, I’ve been kinda losing my shit a little. My life is fucked up, okay? I know that. But you—Cas, the only times I’ve felt like I might be even remotely okay is when I’m with you.”

“But you still have nightmares,” Cas says.

Dean touches the back of Cas’s neck with the pads of his fingers, gentle. Cas leans into it, closing his eyes.

“If you’re worried, you could invite me to spend the night,” Dean says.

Cas huffs out a laugh, opening his eyes, and Dean grins playfully. Shaking his head, Cas leans forward and presses their lips together, Dean moving his hand up to cup Cas’s cheek, brushing his thumb against the bone. Cas sighs into the kiss. It tickles, warmth sinking into Dean’s bones and pooling at the base of his spine.

“Mm,” Cas says. “Not that I’m not enjoying this—”

Dean pulls back. “Another time?”

Cas nods. Dean lets his hand slide down his neck, down to his shoulder.

“I think I just need to be alone for a bit,” Cas says.

“Gotcha,” Dean squeezes Cas’s shoulder once, gently, then drops his hand. “It’s a lot to process.”

With a small smile, Cas opens the passenger door and steps out into the dark. He shuts the door behind himself and leans down to peer in through the window.

“Good night, Dean,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Dean nods.

 

///

 

  
From: Sam [9:03pm]  
I printed off everything I find about local legends.  
No idea what’s relevant or not but can’t be too careful.

  


  
To: Sam [9:04pm]  
Beat you. Sigils are Enochian. Angelic language.

  


  
From: Sam [9:06pm]  
Does that mean angels actually exist?  
What does the note say?

  


  
To: Sam [9:07pm]  
That’s what me and Cas are going to find out.

  


  
From: Sam [9:08pm]  
Where are you going? I’m coming with you.

  


  
To: Sam [9:11pm]  
Sit this one out. I’ll let you know the details.

 

///

 

Dean picks up Cas in the Impala the next morning, and together they drive to the opposite side of town, where the driveways stretch longer and the spaces between houses are wider. The wind blowing through the open car windows is warm, and Cas is quiet next to him, traveller’s coffee mug in his lap, sunglasses perched on his face. At any other time it’d be nice, but today something sits heavy in Dean’s gut. It makes him fidget in his seat, shoulders tense.

Eventually Cas points right, and they turn off onto a dirt road. Farmland stretches out on either side of them, a constant blur of green tucked away behind wooden fences. The sign for Hevel Farm is old and faded, painted with looping letters and decorated with stylized bees. Dean turns down the drive, braking to let a chicken cross the path in front of him, and slowing to a stop a little ways away from the farmhouse.

Dean turns off the engine. There’s a motorcycle parked next to the house, and an old truck under a portable garage tarp. Somewhere behind the barn, a horse whinnies.

“Have you spoken with Cain before?” Cas asks, breaking the silence.

“You mean besides drunkenly trying to flirt with him?” Dean asks. “No, not really.”

Cas looks at him.

“I, uh. Have a thing for tattoos,” Dean says.

Cas blinks. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Dean stares at him. “Cas. Do you—”

“We should go,” Cas says.

They walk up the front porch together. It’s a small farm, smaller than Dean was expecting. There are no rows of corn or wheat, no massive silos or looming red barns. The only thing that stands out is a fair-sized apiary off to the side of the house, under a patch of trees.

Cas knocks on the front door.

“This is a bit domestic for a biker dude,” Dean says, still glancing around the property.

The front door opens and Cain appears behind the screen, beige shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dean’s eye wanders to the red mark in the crook of his right elbow, standing out amongst the dark scripture and black and white images.

“Cas,” Cain says. “You’re aware it’s Saturday?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Apologies. We’re not here on business.”

Cain glances at Dean, then back to Cas.

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting this eventually,” he says.

Dean looks at Cas and Cain opens the screen door and lets them inside. Cas steps inside first, wiping off his shoes, Dean following suit. Cain leads them down the hallway and into the living room, where he motions for them to sit on the sofa before disappearing into the kitchen. The sofa sinks when Dean sits on it, throwing him off balance. Cas sits down easily next to him.

“He was expecting us? That’s not ominous at all,” Dean mutters.

“Well, you did say he had a run-in with demons,” Cas says. “Given you and your brother’s line of work, perhaps he’s heard of you.”

“I hope you like tea,” Cain says, coming out of the kitchen with a tray covered in teacups and saucers, a teapot steaming and filling the room with the faint smell of lemon. He sets the tray down on the coffee table and pours them each a cup. “I collected the honey myself.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, warming his hands on the cup.

Cain takes his own tea and sits in the chair opposite. Taking a drink, he watches them over the rim, quiet and calculating. Then he sets the teacup back into its saucer and sets it on the table.

Right. Now or never. Dean clears his throat.

“When your friend Abaddon was here, she mentioned an angel,” he says. When Cain doesn’t respond, Dean continues. “See, I never thought angels were real. Werewolves, ghosts, demons. I got evidence for that. But not angels.”

Cain watches him, waiting.

“But I’ve got a cabin with a mind of its own and a room full of Enochian sigils. And Cas has this.”

Dean digs the note out of his back pocket. He unfolds it and passes it over to Cain, who takes it carefully out of his hand. He reads it over, expression blank, then lowers the note and picks up his teacup. He looks at Dean first, then over to Cas.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“I wrote it,” Cas says. “In my sleep.”

“And do you understand it?” Cain asks. Cas shakes his head.

“You do, though,” Dean says. “Don’t you?”

Cain looks at him again.

Dean says, “Cuz you’re not just some criminal from a bike gang who rolled into town and just happened to piss off some demons. You _are_ a demon. You’re a Knight of Hell.”

“From Perdition I raised the Righteous Man, Dean Winchester,” Cain says.

Dean frowns at him.

“It’s what the note says,” Cain says, moving to hand the paper back to him. Dean doesn’t take it. Cain passes it over to Cas instead, who hesitates before pulling it out from between his fingers.

“I disbanded my knights centuries ago. Abaddon was the only one who survived. I fled, chose to live a solitary life. Kept moving to keep away from her,” Cain says. “I didn’t want anything to do with her or her plans anymore. She wants Hell’s crown. She can have it for all I care. I just want to be left alone.”

Cain takes another drink from his cup. Then he continues, “But I have heard about the angel who rebelled against Heaven. It caused a war, and in the end, the angel chose to fall. Ripped his grace out in shame and threw it to Earth. Took an unoccupied vessel.”

Dean says, “So, Abaddon—”

“She’s after the grace,” Cain nods. “As I imagine many others are. There have been demons in town. A horseman. They’re all looking for it. An angel’s grace can be a powerful weapon in the hands of someone capable. Abaddon means to question the angel for the grace’s whereabouts, since she’s unable to find it herself.”

“You said the angel isn’t here,” Dean says.

Cain says, “I lied.”

“Well, then—who, where?” Dean asks. “Where is it?”

“ _His_ name,” Cain sets his teacup on his saucer. “Is Castiel. And he’s sitting next to you on my couch.”

Dean’s insides freeze. His muscles refuse to move, breath caught in his throat. He isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks his heart might have stopped for a beat. Next to him Cas is just as still, staring at Cain with his mouth slightly open.

Then Cas exhales. Carefully, he slides his teacup and saucer onto the coffee table in front of him. He rises from the couch and turns stiffly, and quietly shuffles out of the room without a word.

Dean jerks, snaps himself out of it. Moves to grab at the back of Cas’s shirt, to jump up and follow him, but Cain says, “Leave him.”

“He’s—you’re telling me he’s a fucking—he’s an _angel?_ ” Dean says. “Fluffy wings, halo, strumming a harp and singing _holy holy holy_ , that kind of angel?”

“Angels are warriors, Dean,” Cain says. “They’re powerful beings filled with wrath and fury. They’re one of the most dangerous creatures in existence.”

Dean swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”

Cain drains his teacup and pours himself more.

“Abaddon was not wrong to come here,” he says, leaning back in his chair again. “Castiel’s grace is nearby. She can, and probably will, find it eventually.”

“Great. So what do we do?” Dean asks. His teacup’s started to rattle quietly against his saucer. He puts it on the table, tea untouched.

“Reunite the angel with its grace,” Cain says. “Or destroy it. If you can.”

“I don’t even—I mean, where do we even begin?” Dean says. “Cas doesn’t remember being an angel.”

“It’ll be hidden someplace deep, protected with magic powerful enough to keep both demons and angels alike from finding it.” Cain watches him closely. “An angel’s grace has the ability to alter reality around it. It can create and destroy at the same time. Attract some while repelling others.”

“Like a magnet,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Cain says. “Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

 

///

 

He finds Cas sitting in the shade of a tree near the apiary. Legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap, watching the hives like if he stares hard enough he can see through the wood and watch the bees inside.

Dean carefully lowers himself into the grass next to him. He stretches his right leg out, rubbing his knee through the fabric of his jeans, and watches Cas out of the corner of his eye.

“Did you know that, for a hive of bees to make one kilogram of honey, they’d collectively have to travel 90,000 miles to gather all the nectar needed?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean says. “I didn’t.”

“They’re amazing creatures,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Cas keeps his eyes glued to the hives, his fingers pulling up blades of grass absentmindedly, making a small pile on the ground in front of him. Dean shifts closer to him, pressing their shoulders together. 

“The doctors kept calling me Mr. Novak. They said I was in a car accident. It never felt right to me,” Cas says. “When he said my name—when he said Castiel, it was…familiar. It felt right.”

He plays with a blade of grass for a moment.

“Unoccupied vessel,” he says quietly. “Whoever Mr. Novak was, at least he isn’t trapped in here with me.”

“You gonna be okay?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Cas says. “Things are starting to make sense.”

“Okay. Good,” Dean says. “But—if you’re not, then. Uh. I’m—y’know. Here.”

Cas looks at him and smiles. “And not good with words, apparently.”

“Not so much,” Dean says.

Cas reaches out and touches Dean’s knee. Dean lowers his hand on top of Cas’s and squeezes, rubs his thumb across the knuckles. Cas inhales, slow, closing his eyes. Then he exhales and pulls his hand out from under Dean’s to dig into his pocket for a fresh pack of cigarettes.

“Well, we know where it is now,” Dean says. “So. Whatever you want to do.”

Dean watches Cas turn the pack over in his hands, over and over again, slowly, rhythmically. Cas stares down at the label, rubs his thumb over the wings on the brand logo.

“I want to find it,” he says.

He slips the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.


	12. Chapter 12

It starts to rain as they drive back home. Dean drives thirty over the speed limit the whole way, the Impala’s engine growling as she rips down country roads and skirts through town, rolling through puddles, the breeze warm and the rain soaking Dean’s arm from keeping the window down.

The porch light is on at the front of his cabin when they arrive, Sam’s car parked in the driveway. They wander up the front porch, past the humming bug zapper, and into the cabin, where Sam greets them with a wave, eyes glued to the game on television that keeps going in and out of static.

“Dude,” he says. “Your reception sucks.”

“Turn it off,” Dean says. He grabs the remote and does it for him before Sam has a chance to move. Sam starts to whine but stops as soon as he sees the look on Dean’s face.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Long story,” Dean says. “I need a beer.”

He grabs two out of the fridge, handing one over to Cas, and together they tell Sam everything—about Abaddon, about Cain, about the sigils and what Cas’s note says, and about Cas being a fallen angel from Heaven.

“An angel,” Sam says, staring at him in awe. “Like, an _angel_ angel?”

“Apparently,” Cas says.

“His grace is buried in the cabin somewhere. Or under it. It’s what’s making the place all fucked up,” Dean says. “Actually, the way Cain was talking, it kinda sounds like Cas’s grace _is_ the cabin. Or it built the cabin. Or something.”

Sam frowns at him and Dean shakes his head.

“Your guess is as good as mine, man.”

“So what are we going to do?” Sam asks.

“I’m going to go through the door down the stairs, through the room with the sigils,” Cas says. “And I’m going to keep going until I find it.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dean stands up. “You’re not going down there alone.”

“Dean,” Cas starts. “This is my fault. All of this has been happening because of me. It’s my grace, I should—”

“And it’s my cabin!” Dean says. “I’m not letting you go down there by yourself, Cas. You have no idea what’s down there.”

“Neither do you.”

“I’m a hunter,” Dean says. “I’ve dealt with all kinds of weird shit before.”

“Dean, we very well may die looking,” Cas says. “This is my doing. You shouldn’t have to suffer for it. You could move out, find someplace more comfortable. I’ve already caused enough trouble in your life—”

“Don’t,” Dean says. “You know that’s not true, so don’t you start that.”

Sam clears his throat. Dean and Cas both look at him and fall quiet.

“We could all go,” he says.

Dean points at him. “You’re not going.”

“You guys have no idea what’s down there!” Sam says. “Dean, I’m not going to just sit around—”

“Sam, listen to me,” Dean says. “It’s bad enough both of us are going. If things go sideways and all three of us are down there we’ll have no hope in hell of getting out.”

“And if things go sideways and you’re both out on your asses, how are you going to get help?” Sam asks.

“If we have to tap Morse code into the walls, we’ll do it, okay?” Dean says. “But you’re not coming.”

“Dean—”

“I said no, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam deflates, his jaw still clenching.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m still helping. One way or another. I’m not sitting out on this.”

“As long as you stay up here, I’m good,” Dean says.

Sam relaxes slightly. “Okay. I’ll think of something.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says. Sam gives him a nod and Dean nudges him gently.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.”

 

///

 

Outside, Dean pulls his jacket tighter around himself, against the pouring rain. Thunder rolls overhead. Together he and Cas make their way down the porch steps, breaking into a run to get out of the driveway and onto Cas’s property. Cas digs out his keys and Dean tries to block the rain the best he can, using his cellphone to light the lock. Cas finally gets the door open and together they head inside, shaking rain out of their hair and kicking off their wet boots and socks.

Cas tosses him a towel from a pile of clean laundry and says, “I’ll make tea.”

Dean’s jeans stick to his legs. He puts the towel down on the couch and sits down on top of it. The cats are inside, curled up together on an armchair, half-buried under an old blanket. Outside Cas’s wind chimes knock together, barely noticeable under the sound of the rain on the roof.

“Here,” Cas says a few minutes later, handing Dean a mug of steaming tea. He sits down on the couch next to him, the cushions sinking, and uses his towel to finish drying off his hair.

Dean’s hands shake against his mug. Cas lowers the towel.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“Nah,” Dean says. He takes a drink from his mug, then he laughs. “Just kinda scared.”

Cas looks at him. “Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Can it, all right? I’m going with you,” Dean says.

Cas closes his mouth and exhales slowly.

“When I was a kid, me and Sam were at the library one day and I found this—this book. Some kid’s book full of Greek myths,” Dean says. “One of them was about a hero who killed all these beasts, and how he braved the labyrinth to defeat the Minotaur.”

“So that’s why you laughed at my cat’s names,” Cas says.

“Sorta, yeah,” Dean says. “Anyway. So in this story, everyone thinks the Minotaur is this evil monster, but the hero manages to kill it. But then he gets lost in the labyrinth, and he realizes that the Minotaur wanted to help him. So the hero dies.”

Dean shakes his head. Takes another drink from his mug. “It just—it scared the shit out of me. I mean, I’ve hunted monsters—real monsters—ever since I was a kid. And this story about a labyrinth terrified me.”

“That’s rather morbid for a children’s book,” Cas says. “In the original myth, Theseus finds his way out of the labyrinth and saved all the Athenians trapped in it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I think I would’ve liked that version better.”

Cas shuffles closer to him. Dean looks up just as Cas takes his mug out of his hands and sets it on the coffee table.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you,” Cas says, reaching up to tug open the collar of Dean’s jacket, pulling it down off his shoulders, still damp and heavy from the rain. Dean watches him until Cas looks up, then he leans forward, catching Cas’s bottom lip between his own.

Dean keeps his kisses as soft, barely-there brushes of his lips, tries to keep his breathing steady, his skin from burning too hot. But Cas presses closer still, opens his mouth when Dean dips his tongue in, and then there are hands digging in his hair and Cas is pulling at his t-shirt, saying, “Up, come on. Upstairs.”

Upstairs is a small loft with large windows, more overflowing bookshelves, and an unmade bed—and Dean’s theory about Cas crawling out of it each morning without bothering to get dressed is looking like it might ring true. Cas nudges him towards it.

“Uh,” Dean says when Cas’s hands slip under his t-shirt, warm against the skin of his hips, pushing up along his sides and over his spine as Cas nips at his jawline, mouths at his neck. Dean swallows and says, “Just so I’m not getting ahead of myself here, but. Is this—are we gonna—”

“If that’s all right with you,” Cas says, his hands stilling.

“Oh, hell yes.”

Cas pulls his shirt off, drops it onto the floor and lowers his hands to work at Dean’s belt. Dean presses kisses to his temple, his cheek, working his way back to Cas’s mouth. His jeans drop, pooling at his feet, and Cas pushes him down onto the bed.

Dean opens his knees, lets Cas crawl between them, the rough, damp fabric of his jeans scraping against the inside of his thighs, t-shirt hanging loosely across his chest. Dean rocks up, feels Cas pressing hard against him, but Cas just circles his knee with his hand, traces the lines of scarring with the tips of his fingers, and Dean stills. The holes in his jeans never really show the worst of the damage.

Cas looks at him. Dean licks his lips, and Cas leans forward to press a kiss to his knee, his stubble scratching at the skin. Dean’s breath catches in his throat and his body tenses, but Cas’s hands smooth it away, tugging at the elastic of his boxers. Dean shifts his hips and lets Cas tug them off. Pressing his mouth against the inside of Dean’s knee, moving lower, Cas slides his hand up to wrap around him. Dean closes his eyes. Cas smiles against his thigh.

“This is unfair, y’know,” Dean says.

“Oh?” Cas brushes the pad of his thumb across the head of Dean’s cock. Dean inhales sharply and Cas says, “How so?”

“You’re—ah. You’re still dressed.”

Cas stills his hand. “You’re allowed to take my clothes off, you know.”

Oh. Right.

Dean reaches down, tugs at the hem of Cas’s shirt and pulls it over his shoulders, messing up his hair in the process. He runs his hands up Cas’s arms, over his shoulders, then down his chest, his fingers pausing over a patch of ink on his ribs. More Enochian symbols. Dean looks up at Cas, curious.

“Ah,” he says. “That just sort of… appeared one day.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “This day keeps getting weirder.”

“You’re about to get laid, why are you complaining?” Cas asks.

“Good question.” Dean unclasps Cas’s belt, pulling the leather out from his jeans and tossing it away somewhere. Cas helps him pull them down, along with his boxers, kicking them off, and then it’s just warm, smooth skin sliding against warm, smooth skin.

They rock together for a long, quiet moment, their harsh breathing and the rain outside the only sound before Cas pulls away to dig in his bedside drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube and a condom.

Dean swallows. It’s been a while—a long while. After a string of bad, sketchy bar-bathroom, back-of-the-car decisions, he kept more to himself.

But Cas is patient, waiting until Dean meets his eyes, licks his lips and nods. Cas watches him closely as he works him open, gentle, slipping his fingers in and out, making Dean’s skin burn, his hips twitch. Cas pulls his hand away, leaving him empty, and picks up the condom, tearing it open and rolling it on. He coats himself and Dean spreads his legs wider, shifts so Cas can slip a pillow under him. Dean pulls him in, hand on the back of his neck, leaning up to kiss him as Cas’s hand reaches down.

Then Cas is pressing against him, sliding in, hot and hard and thick, and Dean’s pretty sure his heart is going to jump right out of his damn chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Are you all right?” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “I’m awesome.”

Cas hums and begins to roll his hips. “Good.”

Dean bites his lip and moans, feeling his cheeks burn. Two seconds in and he’s already losing it. Cas smiles against his face. Dean brushes his fingers over Cas’s tattoo in retaliation, tickling up his side, pressing over his nipple, making Cas’s breath hitch, making him pant against his mouth, hips building a steady rhythm.

The heat grows, threatening to break, going from gentle to frantic in a heartbeat. Dean uses the headboard as leverage to meet Cas’s thrusts, thighs shaking with the effort. Cas groans into the groove of his neck, nipping at the skin and shifting his weight so he can fuck into him harder.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whimpers. “Yeah, like that. Just—don’t stop. _Fuck_ —”

“Do you—do you need a hand?” Cas asks.

Dean whines, back arching, and comes all over their stomachs with a shudder.

Cas laughs breathlessly into the side of his neck. “I guess not.”

“Keep going,” Dean says, and Cas pushes himself harder, desperate, the bed squeaking under them as he quickly loses his rhythm. Dean mouths gently along the stubble of his jaw, murmuring against his skin until Cas moans and tenses above him, finally toppling over the edge and collapsing down onto Dean’s chest.

“Fuck,” he says.

Dean keeps kissing him until their breathing goes quiet.

“So. Was it worth the wait?” he asks when Cas rolls onto his side.

“Mm,” Cas says. “It was all right, I suppose.”

“If you say ‘I’ve had better’ I’m fucking leaving.”

Cas grins at him and Dean rolls his eyes.

 

///

 

The cabin is still, quiet except for the rain and the sound of frogs. He drifts in and out of sleep and dreams of green grass, of long country roads. He dreams of fishing on still waters off a warm wooden dock.

Sometime around two in the morning he wakes again, finding himself pressed against Cas’s side, warm, Cas’s hand brushing through his hair, his breathing calm. The bedside lamp casts the room into a dull orange glow. Dean stretches against Cas’s side and Cas’s hand stills.

“Is Sam expecting you back?” he asks.

“Nah,” Dean says. “He, uh. Probably knows.”

“Ah,” Cas says.

“Why you awake, anyway?” Dean asks.

“Can’t sleep,” Cas says. Dean looks at him and Cas smiles gently. “Still processing.”

Right. They might die tomorrow. Might wander through a door that locks behind them and traps them down under Dean’s cabin forever.

Or they’ll find Cas’s grace, and Cas will become an angel again. Something powerful and pure and dangerous, full of holy wrath and fury. Something so huge and significant that suddenly Dean will be nothing but a bug, a speck of dirt barely worth contemplating.

Dean presses closer to him and Cas wraps him up tighter.

 

///

 

The smell of mud and wet grass blows in from the open windows. The sun leaves bright, hot patches on the floor. If it were any other morning spent sitting at a warm kitchen table, drinking coffee with Cas and still feeling the hint of his stubble scratching along the skin of his thighs, it would be close to Dean’s idea of bliss.

But instead Dean’s heart sits uncomfortably in his chest, the coffee doing little to alleviate his nerves. Cas is quiet, watching his cats play together in the grass, lifting his mug to take a drink every so often.

When they make their way back to Dean’s cabin, there are two more cars in the driveway. Cas wordlessly glances at Dean, who opens and closes his mouth, then fishes his keys out of his pockets and unlocks the front door.

“Okay, hold it. I think I got it now,” Charlie fiddles with something in her hands. Beside her, Kevin checks something on his laptop, and Donna swears under her breath and tries to untangle a ball of red string, an overflowing basket of the stuff sitting on the coffee table.

“Got it!” Sam comes out of the guest room, laptop in hand, and nearly bumps into Dean. “Hey!”

“What the hell’s going on?” Dean asks.

“I came up with a plan,” Sam says. “Ash helped Kevin and Charlie set up a wireless video feed and gave us some hand radios that should last a while, since you should probably only use your phone in an emergency. The string is so you can find your way back, and I’ve packed some food and supplies.”

From the couch Kevin and Charlie give distracted waves, and Donna swears again, throwing the ball of string back into the basket.

Dean turns back to Sam and says, “Supplies?”

“Well, yeah.” Sam shuffles awkwardly. “We have no idea how deep this thing goes, Dean. You could be gone for a few hours. Or—well. Yeah.”

Right.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says. “Guess I’ll go to the bathroom now so we don’t have to make a pit stop.”

Dean breaks away from them, wandering up the stairs to his bedroom. He shuts the door behind himself and keeps a hand pressed against it, making sure his legs won’t give out from under him before he moves away. His room hasn’t changed any since the last time he was in it, the windowsills bare of bird nests. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, steadying himself.

When he opens them again, the silver blade catches his attention, still tucked behind a dog-eared book and a half-empty glass of water on his nightstand. Dean makes his way over to it, picking it up with both hands, running his fingers over the handle. He slips it inside his jacket and opens the drawer, grabbing his gun and his flask of whiskey before heading back downstairs.

Everyone has moved into the kitchen, crowded around the table, laptops out and speakers hooked up, wires criss-crossing everywhere. Cas and Sam stand by the door, talking quietly. Donna spots him first, grabbing her basket and coming over to him.

“That for me?” he asks.

“You betcha,” she says, slipping the basket into his hands. “Should all be untangled now. You just tie one end to the door once you’re down there. If you run out, tie one string to the next so you won’t get lost, since I have no idea how I’d explain this to a search and rescue party.”

Dean takes a ball of string and turns it over in his hands before slipping it into his pocket.

“Thanks, Donna.”

She nods and gives his hand a squeeze. “You two be careful down there.”

Sam hands them both stuffed backpacks. Dean shoves the rest of Donna’s string into it, making sure it all fits, and pulls the pack over his shoulders. Kevin gives them one of the hand radios, fresh off the chargers, and Charlie hands over flashlights and extra batteries, and attaches the wireless camera to Dean’s jacket collar, giving it a pat to make sure it stays in place.

He turns to Cas, who nods. Dean takes in a deep breath.

“Well,” he says. “See y’all on the other side.”

He opens the door, and together he and Cas head down the stairs.


	13. Chapter 13

The door shuts behind them with a quiet click.

Dean turns on his flashlight and holds it up so Cas can see the walls. Cas moves over to the nearest one, pressing his hand against the sigils, tracing their outlines with the tips of his fingers. Dean waits, giving him enough time and space as he needs to take it all in, to process it. The tug in his chest feels fainter than before, a light scratch against his bones. Still there, but only just.

Cas finally turns back to look at him. He freezes.

“The door is gone,” he says. Dean glances over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, it does that.”

“It’s done that before?”

“Last time I was down here, yeah,” Dean says. “Hey, you feel anything?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “In my chest.”

“Like what?”

“A hum, almost,” Cas says. “Do you feel it, too?”

“I felt it before,” Dean says. “Not so much now.”

Cas looks around the room again.

“Cain said my grace would be protected?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“I’ve seen several of these symbols before,” Cas says, reaching out to touch the wall again. “Perhaps this is a protective spell.”

“In your notes?” Dean asks.

“No,” Cas looks at him. “On my tattoo.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Hey, yeah. That little squiggly on the wall by your shoulder looks exactly like the one closest to your belly button.”

Dean grins at him and Cas sighs, pulling away from the wall to come stand next to him. Dean shines his flashlight on the door on the opposite side of the room. They walk forward, footsteps loud in the overwhelming quiet of the room. Cas slows, and when Dean looks back he’s wincing, slightly out of breath.

“Just fight it, Cas,” Dean says. “Happened to me, too. “

Cas manages to press forward, reaching for Dean’s arm. Dean grabs him and tugs him closer, Cas grunting. He twists the handle and pulls the door open.

He hears Cas’s breath catch in his throat when they enter the next room, and Dean lets the door close behind them. He gives Cas a few minutes to regain his composure, watches him eye the sigils again as they pass, Dean digging the string out of his pocket to tie to the door on the right. Cas looks over at him.

“It’s how I got out last time,” Dean says. He ties the opposite end of the string to one of his belt loops and shoves the excess back into his pocket. Then he points to the next door and says, “Guess we’re going through there.”

“Guys?” Charlie’s voice crackles through the hand radio. “Can you hear me?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘over’,” Kevin says. “Your finger’s still on the—”

Cas looks down at Dean’s belt. Dean pulls the radio off of it and presses the button.

“Yeah, we hear you. Over.”

“Do we really have to keep saying ‘over’? Over,” Charlie says.

“Uh,” Dean says. “No, I guess we don’t have to.”

“Cool,” Charlie says. “So your video feed is coming in okay. It’s kind of dark and pixelated and it’s probably lagging a bit, but there’s at least something. Also, probably should have mentioned this before, but there’s a microphone attached, so. Y’know. Didn’t know you had a tattoo, Cas.”

Cas glares at Dean, who bites his bottom lip.

“Okay,” he says into the radio. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“No probs,” she says.

Dean tucks the radio back onto his belt and turns the flashlight to the opposite door. Cas follows close behind, close enough that all Dean has to do is shift his hand a little to brush against Cas’s. The throb in his chest has grown slightly in size, tickling him from the inside out.

“How you feeling?” he asks.

“Odd,” Cas says. “Before it was like I was being pushed back. Now I’m being pulled forward.”

“Guess we’re going in the right direction,” Dean says, and opens the door.

There’s a long hallway. So long the flashlight doesn’t reach the end of it. There are doors on either side of the walls, unmarked and indistinguishable from one another. Cas holds onto the back of his belt as they walk forward, and Dean tries to control his breathing, quick and nervous in his chest, heart thudding.

“Should we open these?” Cas asks, gesturing to a door as they pass. Dean stops in his tracks, shines his light on one of them, then looks at Cas.

“Why, you feeling a pull?”

Cas shakes his head. “Not to the doors in particular, no. But are we sure we should even be following the pull? What if it’s safer to go in the opposite direction of it?”

“I dunno, Cas,” Dean says. “I mean, this is your grace, right? Wouldn’t it, like, want you to find it?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says. “It’s—fuzzy. I feel… I’m not sure.”

Dean studies him for a moment. Cas looks fine—well, as fine as anyone can look in a pitch black, seemingly endless hallway underneath a cabin that magically popped into existence two years ago, with nothing but a flashlight and a piece of red string to guide him, some PTSD-case monster-hunter as a sidekick. But he’s slouched, clinging to Dean’s belt and still slightly out of breath.

“Hey,” Dean says. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I have to,” Cas says.

Cas looks up at him and Dean lowers his flashlight. He’s seen that look before. That stubborn determination, a bright flicker of hope underlying it. For years, it was the same look his father wore. Eventually, that hope burnt out, leaving him with nothing but obsession and bitterness and revenge-driven desperation.

Dean nods and raises his flashlight again. “Okay.”

 

///

 

Nothing really changes. It’s dark no matter how far they walk, the temperature hovering just slightly below comfortable. Not cold enough cause shivering, but cool and damp enough to sink into bones and refuse to leave. Dean rubs at his knee when they stop after roughly twenty minutes, so Cas can examine more sigils that have suddenly started to appear in small patches the further they walk.

Dean glances at his watch, but the hands have stopped moving. He shakes it and lifts it to his ear. Nothing. With a sigh he lets his hand fall back to his side and he leans against the wall, shifting his weight off his bad leg.

“Hey guys,” Kevin’s voice crackles through the quiet. “Just checking in again.”

Dean picks up the hand radio. “Dude. It’s been, like, twenty minutes.”

The radio is silent for a moment.

“Dean, it’s been an hour and a half,” Kevin says.

Dean frowns. “My watch died.”

Cas gently takes the radio from him.

“Kevin,” Cas says. “What’s the video feed showing?”

“Uh.” There’s the sound of shuffling on the other end. “You’re in a hallway. There’s more of those funny symbols on the walls. The feed’s been jumping around a bit, lagging and then speeding up. Are you guys finding anything?”

Cas hands the radio back and Dean says, “Nothing yet. We’ll keep you updated.”

He tucks the radio away again and he and Cas keep walking.

 

///

 

It happens when they hit what Dean guesses is the three hour mark.

They eventually come to the end of the hallway and meet another door. Cas twists it open and steps inside, Dean hesitating before following, shining his flashlight down the hallway and trying to see beyond the light’s reach.

There’s a tickle at the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him. He holds his breath and listens for anything, a footstep or a quiet creak, but there’s nothing. He walks backwards a step, then another, then turns around and enters the next room.

Cas is slumped against the wall, hand pressed against his head, breathing ragged.

“Cas?” Dean moves to rush over to him, the string tied to his jeans pulling tight. He reaches into his pocket to pull the rest out, to check for tangles, but there are none. That’s one roll of string gone. Dean drops his backpack and sets to work untying the string.

“This is my fault,” Cas says. “All this blood. Zachariah—I can’t let him—he can’t—”

“Cas, hey!” Dean calls. The knot in the string won’t come undone. Dean swears under his breath. “Just hang on a minute, buddy.”

Cas inhales and straightens up again, shaking his head, still rubbing at it. He turns around slowly, blinking in the flashlight a few times, then exhales and drops his hand.

“What happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?” Dean asks.

“Yes. I… remembered something,” Cas says. “From before.”

“Before, like—”

“When I was an angel,” Cas nods. “I think so.”

“Who’s Zachariah?” Dean asks.

“I was trying to—I think I was trying to stop something,” Cas says. “He was after me.”

Dean finally manages to untie the string. He opens his backpack and digs out another roll, tying the end of the new one to the end of the old one. He ties the other end to his backpack strap instead of his jeans, then makes his way over to Cas, who reaches for him wordlessly, touches his hand to his arm.

“Hey,” Dean says. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I—I’m fine. I’m just—it’s confusing.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “I think we’ve got some water in here. You want some water? And maybe something to eat, huh? If Sammy packed it’s probably all health shit, just to forewarn you.”

He half-expects the radio to crackle into life, for Sam to snipe some remark at him down the line about protein and vitamin consumption or something, but nothing comes.

Cas licks his lips and nods, so Dean turns him around and digs through his backpack, pulling out a bottle of water. Cas takes it and drinks a quarter of it in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“We should keep going,” he says.

 

///

 

Eventually they come to another set of stairs, lopsided and wooden, dipping into darkness. Cas picks his way down them, quiet and slower than his usual pace, but steady on his feet still. He drinks water occasionally, and gets Dean to dig a granola bar out of his pack, which perks him up a little.

The room at the end of the stairs is massive. At least, Dean assumes it’s massive. Both he and Cas shine their flashlights all around them, searching for more symbols, for more doors, but there’s nothing but darkness on either side of them and above them.

“Awesome,” Dean says. “This ain’t gonna be difficult at all.”

“Uh, guys?” Sam’s voice says. “You there?”

Dean picks up the radio. “Yeah, Sammy. What’s up?”

“We’ve run into a problem,” Sam says. “The video feed cut out. You went down the stairs and it fizzed out.”

“We can wait a few minutes while you get it working again,” Dean says.

“We’ve been trying to get it working for fifteen minutes. I think it’s done,” Sam says. “Donna’s heading home to bed, and I think Charlie and Kevin are about ready to pass out. We’re going to start doing shifts.”

Dean frowns at the radio. “It’s, what. Two in the afternoon?”

“Uh,” Sam says. “Try three in the morning?”

Dean looks at Cas, who blinks at him in surprise.

“There’s no way we’ve been down here seventeen hours,” Dean says.

“We had sixteen hours and forty-six minutes of video when the feed cut out,” Sam says. “So, yeah. Roughly seventeen hours.”

Dean swallows.

“It might be the, uh. The grace,” Cas says. “Cain said it can alter reality, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You think it’s fucking with the time?”

Cas shakes his head. “I suppose it’s… within possibility.”

“None of this should be fucking possible,” Dean says.

“Guys?” Sam says again.

“Yeah, Sam. We’re here,” Dean says.

“You stopped talking.”

“For how long?” Dean asks.

“It’s been about five minutes,” Sam says.

“Yeah. More like two seconds for us,” Dean says. “Cas thinks it might be his grace fucking with the time. Cain said angel’s grace can alter reality.”

“I don’t like this, Dean,” Sam says.

“We’re gonna be fine, Sam,” Dean says. “You guys do your shift thing and if we run into any trouble we’ll radio you up, okay? Why don’t you check in on us in three hours?”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Just. Stay safe. Please.”

“You bet,” Dean says.

Cas reaches out, wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and offers him a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Dean presses closer to him, just for a moment, just to feel his warmth, the solid line of him against his side.

Then he readies himself again, double-checking the string before giving Cas a nod. As they walk through the darkness, moving their flashlights around them in search for any sign of direction, Cas slightly in the lead, Dean tries to concentrate on the feeling in his chest, on the dull pull. It flutters occasionally, presses against his ribs, but mostly he feels nothing. Just cool, still air on his skin, and the tickle at the back of his neck.

 

///

 

Dean’s knee is aching by the time Sam radios in again. They talk briefly, Sam’s voice low with exhaustion when he explains that Charlie will be contacting them next in another three hours. To Dean, it only feels like it’s been an hour.

Shortly after they speak with Charlie, they find the door at the opposite end of the giant room—or at least, Dean hopes it’s the opposite end. He checks to make sure there’s no red string near it, in case they’ve somehow wandered in a loop, but he doesn’t find any.

The next room is small, about the size of his living room. Which would be a relief if there wasn’t furniture in it. Every other room they’ve come across has been bare, just floor and walls and a ceiling—or darkness on all sides.

But this one has more sigils on the wall, the room decorated like an old study, empty bookshelves lining one side and a toppled-over chair in the middle of the floor, next to a large wooden desk. There’s a fireplace on the wall opposite the bookshelf, and curtains that open up into nothing. Cas places his backpack on the floor next to the desk.

“How do you feel about setting up camp here for a bit?” Dean asks.

Cas vomits into an empty wastebasket.

“Whoa, hey,” Dean drops his backpack and moves over to him, placing his hand between Cas’s shoulders as he shakes and heaves again. Dean rubs circles along his back, keeping his voice low. “You’re okay. It’s fine, you’re fine.”

“Dean,” Cas coughs. “I can—feel. It’s—buzzing, almost. I think I… Anna. She—she fell. Like me. I remember when she—I missed her so much. The Garden, she told me about the Garden.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Deans brushes his hair away from his forehead. “You told me about that, remember? How she’d tell you stories about a garden.”

“Not _a_ garden,” Cas says. “ _The_ Garden.”

Dean paused. “You mean, like, Eden? Adam and Eve, crotch leaves, snake with an apple, temptation? That Garden?”

“Yes,” Cas slumps away from the wastebasket. “The Garden of Eden.”

“I’m gonna get you some water,” Dean says.

He digs through his bag for Cas’s bottle of water and brings it over to him. Cas drinks from it slowly, his hands shaking, and Dean gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze before going to inspect the fireplace. It looks real—it _feels_ real. There’s a small pile of ashes in the bottom of it, gritty against Dean’s fingers. He stands up again and looks around the room, eyes landing on the chair.

Cas watches him as he breaks the chair into pieces, stomping on the legs and dropping them into the fireplace. He finds Bobby’s photocopy about Enochian at the bottom of his pack, underneath a wool blanket, and rips it into small balls, tucking it in amongst the wood. There’s a pack of matches in the front pocket of his bag, probably from Sam, and Dean uses one to light the fire, warming his hands.

“Hey,” he says, turning to Cas. “C’mere.”

Cas gets up on shaky legs, grabbing his backpack and dragging it over. He plops down on the ground next to Dean’s feet. Carefully, Dean lowers himself next to him, grunting when his knee throbs. He finds another bottle of water in his bag and grabs it, drinks more than he probably should, not realizing just how thirsty he’s gotten.

Eventually Cas lets out a sigh and presses against him, resting his head on his shoulder. Dean wraps an arm around him, presses his cheek to the top of his head, holds him close. He pulls the wool blanket out of his pack and throws it over their shoulders, and Cas’s breathing slows as he falls asleep.

Dean pulls the radio off of his belt and presses the button, listens for the static sound. It doesn’t come. Dean frowns at the radio, gives it a shake and a smack, careful not to wake Cas, and tries again.

Nothing. Either the battery’s dead or the thing just decided it’s had enough fucked-up adventures for one day and up and quit on them. Dean tries not to panic, fights the urge to throw the thing against the wall just for the brief second of satisfaction at seeing it break into pieces.

Instead he just pulls the blanket tighter around him and Cas and watches the fire.


	14. Chapter 14

“I think I might—I think I remember him,” Cas says as they walk the next day—or what Dean is referring to as the next day.

They’ve passed through a hall so narrow they had to press sideways, flashlights useless, Dean keeping a firm grasp on Cas’s arm with one hand and the string with the other as they moved through it. There was another room with the door in the ceiling, and they had stood in the doorway for several minutes trying to figure out how they’d get up there. But when they walked into the room, the door was suddenly in front of them, and the door they had come through was on the ceiling instead, Dean’s string hanging down, blowing gently in a non-existent draft.

They’re moving through another hallway again, one that twists and turns, passing the odd door. The sigils are back again, etched deep into the walls. They appear to be glowing, dim and foggy, barely noticeable.

“Jimmy,” Cas says. “He was—he was dying. But he said yes. They have to say yes.”

“What are you talking about now?” Dean asks, shining his flashlight over the sigils. The glow seems to move, seems to pull back, shying away from the light like a nocturnal animal.

“My vessel, Jimmy,” Cas says. “Jimmy Novak. He was in a car accident. I think I caused it. That’s how he died. The doctors at the hospital—they thought he was me. Or I was him. That’s why—I was confused, before. I don’t remember because I—that was two years ago, wasn’t it?”

Dean stops to look at him. Cas stops, too, shoulders slumped, legs unsteady. Even in the dim light, Dean can see he’s pale, his lips chapped. His gaze unsteady, pupils blown too-wide. He’s sweating and shivering slightly.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” he asks. “That they have to say yes. Consent, that’s important. He had to say yes for me to possess him, and he did, and he was dying so now he’s in Heaven and I’m here.”

Right. Okay. This is officially not fun anymore. Not that it was fun before this, but their radio batteries are dead and with every door they walk through, Cas seems to dip deeper and deeper down into this mess of incoherent babbling and dangerous swaying. Dean is officially calling this an emergency.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean says, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Can you do me a big favor?”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says. “You know I would. Anything. I’m here, aren’t I? We’re in this—this hell hole, this fucking—but I’m with you. I’ll do anything you want me to.”

“I just need you to sit here for a minute and drink some water,” Dean says. “I’m gonna call Sam.”

“That’s for emergencies,” Cas says.

“Everything’s fine,” Dean says. “Just drink your water, okay?”

Cas does as he’s told, sitting down against the wall and taking a drink. Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns it on, the sudden glow blinding. The screen loads and he unlocks it. There’s only one bar, and it keeps dropping. Dean’s phone buzzes in his hand as he gets a wall of text messages and missed call notifications at once.

  
From: Sam [6:57am]  
Are you there?

  


  
From: Sam [9:30am]  
Dean seriously you need to answer.

  


  
From: Sam [6:06pm]  
If you turn your phone on radio us IMMEDIATELY.

  


  
From: Charlie [8:19am]  
Code red here, Dean. Your brother is seriously freaking out.

  


  
From: Charlie [2:23pm]  
Jody Mills and Donna are here.  
They’re talking search party.  
Radio us ASAP.

  


  
From: Sam [11:50am]  
Bobby went to Cain’s for help but he’s gone.

  
Shit. That last text was the most recent, from a few hours ago according to Dean’s phone. He opens his contact list and presses Sam’s number. The static is loud on the other end, the ringing barely distinguishable. The call picks up immediately.

“Dean?” Sam says, the static dissipating slightly. “What the hell happened? It’s been two days!”

“Fuck,” Dean says. “The radio died. Sorry I didn’t check my phone sooner.”

“Are you guys okay?” Sam asks.

“Uh. Kinda. I dunno.” Dean rubs his eyes. He glances at Cas, who’s staring at the sigils, unblinking. “Cas is—he’s out of it, man.”

“Dean? You’re breaking up,” Sam says. “Maybe you guys should come back and we can try again.”

“I’m not going back,” Cas says. Dean looks at him again and Cas says, “Not until I find it.”

“Dean?” Sam says.

“Yeah, that ain’t an option, Sammy,” Dean says. “Cas doesn’t want to leave, and I’m not leaving without him.”

“Dean—”

The phone erupts into static again and the call cuts out.

“Shit,” Dean says.

He tries again. The phone beeps at him and the screen goes black, dead.

 

///

 

He makes the mistake of letting curiosity get to the best of him eventually. It’s another damn hallway, with more twists and turns, and more doors, the walls bare of sigils. Cas seems to be picking his head up more, looking a little less shaky on his feet, but Dean’s bones are tired, his limp pronounced, his throat dry and his head sore.

So maybe he can blame it on exhaustion instead when he pauses in front of Door Number Whatever, on the right side of the hallway, and decides to see just what sort of prize he’s missing out on.

“Let’s see what he’s won, folks,” he says, twisting the handle and pushing it open.

Aside from a draft, there’s absolutely fuck-all behind Door Number Whatever. Typical. Dean huffs, shining his light in, and takes a step beyond the threshold.

His boot lands on empty air. He topples forward, his heart leaping into his throat. He slips off the threshold with a yelp, managing to grab onto the ledge just in time, digging his fingers in as far as they can go.

“Dean!” Cas shouts, footsteps hurrying towards him, beam of light growing. Cas skids to a stop and drops to his knees, leaning out of the doorway, dangerously close to the ledge.

“Dammit, Cas, be careful!” Dean says.

Using the doorway as leverage, Cas grabs him by the arm and pulls. There’s nothing for Dean to kick against, nothing for him to dig his boots in to try to drag himself back up with. The doorway hovers, suspended in nothingness. Cas yanks him again, teeth bared, managing to lift Dean up further. Dean uses his other hand to grab at the doorway, arms burning.

Finally they’re able to get him up and through. Cas falls backwards and Dean lands hard on his bad knee. His vision swims with the pain and he rolls onto his side, trying to catch his breath, blood booming in his ears.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Cas snaps, his grip still tight on Dean’s jacket. “We can only go forwards! Dean, you could have—”

“I know that!” Dean says, shaking Cas’s hand off of him.

Wincing, he pushes himself off the floor and closes the door. His flashlight is gone, having rolled off the ledge when he fell. Dean shakes himself off and shifts his backpack, pats his jacket and feels the shape of the knife still in the inside pocket, double-checks to make sure the string is still attached to him.

Cas stares at him, jaw tense.

“Let’s just keep moving,” Dean says.

 

///

 

The dull glow of the sigils slowly turns into a burning light, shining through the scratches and painting odd shadows on the walls. There’s more furniture in the room they’re in, worn and ratty, the set-up closely resembling one of the hundreds of indistinguishable motel rooms he and Sam stayed at over the years.

The tingle at the back of his neck has crept down his spine, between his shoulder blades, and every so often he holds his breath, listening for something that might not even be there.

Cas is standing straighter, the color back to his skin, his breathing calm. They stopped to eat apples and more granola bars an hour ago, Dean draining the last of his water and Cas just about. Of all the possible ways Dean’s imagined them dying down here since they started, starvation was not one of them.

 

///

 

The next door they open, they’re hit with a light so blinding Dean physically recoils, holding his arm up to shield his eyes. It’s warm, though, and there’s the fresh smell of grass, of leaves, the sweet smell of lavender and flowers. Dean blinks and slowly lowers his arm.

“Holy shit,” he says.

Beyond the door there’s an entire forest. There are no walls in sight, just a path winding through tall trees, past bushes of flowers and ferns. The light glows from the ceiling—or where Dean imagines there’d be a ceiling—seemingly coming from nowhere. There’s the sound of water running gently somewhere. The sound of frogs and birds and bugs, croaking and chirping and buzzing without a source. At least not one Dean can see, and if he wasn’t seriously freaked out, the idea of this place playing a Sounds of Nature CD on repeat would be enough to make him laugh out loud.

The whole thing is vast and beautiful, and it shouldn’t be here. It feels off. The sounds, the feel of warm light against his skin after however long wandering through the cool dark, it should all be relaxing, calming. Instead it sits on his skin uneasily, hangs off him like a suit that’s too big.

Cas steps beside him. “This feels familiar.”

“How,” Dean says. “I mean—how is this even—we’re _underground_. How fucking deep are we?”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m not even sure if we’re on Earth anymore.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Well, awesome. That’s totally reassuring.”

They walk further along the path, Dean feeding red string through his fingers. He looks behind him, checks to make sure the door is still there, but the trees are blocking his view, leaves growing over the path in the two seconds it took to walk away. Dean looks back to the path in front of him, his stomach clenching.

“You remember I mentioned The Garden,” Cas says, touching a tree as they pass. “I’ve never seen it. Not all angels have the privilege, but we would hear stories from those who had, or from others who heard from them.”

“You remembering something?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Anna. The Garden she described, it looked a lot like this.”

“So are we in Heaven right now?” Dean asks.

“I don’t think so,” Cas says. “I think it’s my grace. It’s… building things from memory. Constructing its own Garden based off the one Anna described. This place—it would make sense. At the center of Heaven lies the Garden.”

Dean looks around them, up through the canopy of trees, towards the light that seems to be dimming, going from bright white to yellow to orange.

“So, is this it?” he asks. “Is your grace here?”

“The light?” Cas asks. “No, it’s much too weak.”

“Too—” Dean blinks at him. “Seriously?”

“We’re getting closer,” Cas says. “It’s going to be dark soon. We should camp.”

 

///

 

They walk until the light overhead is almost out. Dean stops to tie more string. There’s a flutter overhead and he spots the first sign of life other than him and Cas: a pale, red sparrow. Before he can say anything she chirps and takes off again. Cas doesn’t seem to notice.

Only a short distance off the path, they find a clearing under a thick canopy, a clear creek running over rocks in a gentle trickle. Cas fills up their water bottles as Dean breaks off twigs and thin branches from a nearby tree.

“Here,” Cas hands him his water bottle once Dean’s gotten the fire started. He takes it, the plastic cool against his palm.

“You sure this is safe to drink?” he asks.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” Cas says. “If you’ve got a pot or a kettle we could boil it, I suppose. If that’ll make you feel better.”

“Sorry, fresh outta kettles,” Dean says.

He stokes the fire again and slumps down into the grass, a foot or so away from Cas, stretching out his legs and rubbing his knee. He winces when a sharp, shooting pain erupts throughout the bones of his leg, and pulls his hand away.

Cas digs through his pack and finds a bag of trail mix, like they’re the Boy Scouts of America. He offers some to Dean, who shakes his head, and digs out his flask from the bottom of his bag. He takes a pull from it and loosely screws the cap back on.

Cas swallows his mouthful of trail mix and eyes the flask. Then he looks up at Dean.

“What?” Dean snaps. “I like whiskey.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Cas says.

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you any way in particular,” Cas shakes his head. “It’s just that, your drinking—”

“Christ,” Dean says. “Not you, too.”

“Why not me?” Cas asks. “Dean, I’m a recovering drug addict, I know the signs. I know what it’s like.”

“Look, I nearly fell into a—a fucking black hole earlier, okay?” Dean says. “And this—this whole thing, and Sam’s probably scared shitless right now and I can’t even talk to him. I think I’m allowed one drink.”

Cas sighs, his shoulders drooping, the fight going out of him.

“No, I—I understand,” he says. “I could really use a cigarette right now.”

“So have one,” Dean says.

“I didn’t bring them,” Cas says. “I’ve been trying to quit.”

Dean looks down at his hands, at the flask. This whole case has been hard on him. But he’s just the passenger. It might be his cabin they’ve wandered down into, but this whole thing is a part of Cas. A huge part of his past, of his entire life that he can barely even remember, that’s been coming back to him in broken bits and pieces. Dean can’t even imagine.

He shifts his flask to one hand and holds it out to Cas. “Here. You probably need it more than I do.”

Cas huffs out a quiet laugh and takes the flask from him, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. He swallows and clears his throat, then takes another drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hands the flask back to Dean, who drinks more.

“How’s your knee?” Cas asks.

“I’ll live,” Dean says. “Or, well. If I do die, it won’t be from that.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Cas says.

Dean looks at him. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Cas says.

“Then why the hell did you ask?” Dean says.

Cas looks away, past the trees, back towards the path. Dean rubs his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just—”

“Scared shitless?” Cas asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “You’re not alone there.”

He takes the flask from Dean again, drinking more, and presses closer to Dean’s side. They share it in silence, Dean poking at the fire with a stick, the smell of wood burning and smoke heavy in the clearing around them, the glow warm against his face. Eventually the pain in his knee has dulled to throb, the adrenaline has drained out and in its place the exhaustion settles in.

“It was worth it, by the way,” Cas says. Dean looks at him and Cas says, “Waiting for you.”

“You mean the sex?” Dean asks.

“That too,” Cas says.

Dean nods. “Huh.”

Cas’s mouth twitches and he hands the flask back over. “You say, ‘I’ve had better’ and I’m fucking leaving.”

“Nah,” Dean says.

He takes a drink, swallows, the whiskey warming his throat as it goes down. Cas watches him and Dean licks his lips, looking at him again. Cas drops his hand down onto Dean’s knee, careful.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m furious with you for coming with me. But… thank you.”

“You can be pissed at me all you want, Cas,” Dean says. “I still ain’t leavin’ you down here alone.”

Cas dips in and kisses him, lips slightly sticky from dehydration, whiskey heavy on his breath. Dean relaxes into it, leans his weight into him. Cas takes it, let’s Dean slump against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

They curl up together in the grass. The fire slowly dies down to embers, Cas pressed up against his side, breath warm against his face. Dean stares up through the trees, the light above them a faint smudge across the blackness, the chirp of crickets and the occasional croak of a frog ringing throughout the forest.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice breaks in an attempt to keep quiet, feeling like the ground will crack open around them and swallow them up if he’s too loud. Cas inhales and shifts against him, barely awake.

“What is it?” he asks.

“If we do find your grace,” Dean says. “What are you gonna do with it?”

Cas absentmindedly plays with the camera on Dean’s jacket, useless and dead now. He moves his hand over to the zipper, fingers following along the line of jagged metal teeth. Then he stops, his hand resting just above Dean’s heart.

“I don’t know,” he says.


	15. Chapter 15

As they walk further through the garden, the trees grow taller, denser, pressing closer to the path, their roots flowing out across the ground. Eventually the leaves are so thick overhead that barely any light shines through, making the temperature drop and casting dark shadows in their way.

Dean lags behind, his leg stiff and sore. Cas breaks off a tree branch and hands it over to him to use as a cane, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. He keeps close, pressed to Dean’s side in case he needs a rest. They follow the noise of the stream.

“If you remember the Garden,” Dean asks once they stop for a five minute breather. “Do you remember the rest of Heaven?”

“It’s complicated,” Cas says. “There are images. Feelings, perhaps. Things are kind of faded. I remember a room with a fireplace and a chair. I was talking with someone in there. About—I was trying to stop something.”

“Cain said you rebelled,” Dean says.

“And caused a war, yes,” Cas says. “I’m starting to piece that together. There was… a lot of blood. And a smell. Burning. Or something electric, almost. I’m not sure how to describe it.”

They keep going, Cas helping him step over roots and around rocks. The path grows narrow until it disappears completely, and they’re left with only the sound of water as a guide.

Cas seems determined, pressing forward without hesitation, and Dean follows unquestioningly. Aside from stopping occasionally mutter something under his breath, Cas seems to be more focused, more clear-headed, better than he has been since they first started. Dean takes it as a good sign.

 

///

 

Of course, it doesn’t last long. The stops become more frequent and Cas grows quieter, talking to himself, so low that Dean can’t hear it—and even if he could, he doubts he’d be able to understand it. Cas doesn’t even seem aware that he’s doing it. Hell, he might not even be speaking English.

When they stop again, Cas has gone from relatively calm and collected to anxious, fidgeting as he waits for Dean to drink from his bottle of water and stretch his leg.

“Hey. You okay?” Dean asks.

“ _Zoh bah leh ta_ ,” Cas mutters. “ _Sah teh voch leh_.”

“Cas?”

“What?”

“You’re speaking jibberish, man,” Dean says.

“Do you hear that?” Cas asks. Then he turns, walking through the grass and over a tangle of roots, disappearing into the underbrush.

“Cas?” Dean calls. “Hey!”

There’s no response. Dean swears and hobbles after him.

 

///

 

There’s a small path of bent grass and broken twigs winding through the trees, boot prints where the ground is softer, sinking into moss and mud. Dean follows it carefully, using his branch for support. The grass is thick underfoot, most of the roots hidden, and the last thing he needs is to trip again.

He wanders through the forest, slow but determined, keeping an eye out for any sign that Cas stopped somewhere or suddenly changed direction, but there’s nothing. He seems to be going in a straight line, at least.

Finally he comes to a bush, its leaves disturbed in the center, cracks of light shining through. Dean pushes through it, and after a short, only slightly embarrassing struggle, manages to break out from it, coming out the other end in a rush and nearly knocking Cas into a pond.

“Hey, could we not leave the cripple to fend for himself in some freaky, magical underground garden?” Dean says.

Cas ignores him, staring straight into the center of the pond. Dean leans against his branch and sighs.

“Dead end, Cas,” he says. “We should probably get back to the path and find somewhere to bunk down for the—”

Cas walks into the pond.

“Or not,” Dean says.

He limps his way over to the edge of the water. It’s clear, the rocks under the surface visible even in the dimming light. It’s not very deep, at least, so there’s not much chance of Cas drowning and Dean having to dive in after him. It only comes up to Cas’s calves, soaking his jeans and washing off the dirt and dust.

“Earth to Major Tom,” Dean says. “Mind telling me what the hell you’re doing? Cuz you’re kinda freaking me out, here.”

Cas drops to his knees, somewhere near the center of the pond, the water rippling out and soaking his shirt. He’s muttering under his breath again, and Dean feels a chill creep up his spine. He moves to step into the water.

“Don’t,” Cas says, and nearly gives Dean a heart attack.

He exhales shakily, stepping back from the edge as Cas pushes his hands into the water. He moves rocks aside, digs into the mud, the water clouding up around him. Digging deeper, the pond water nearly up to his neck, Cas suddenly stops and a light appears, glowing blue under the water.

Cas tilts his head at it, frowning. Then he disappears under the surface.

“Cas, dammit!” Dean throws his branch away and steps into the pond, pain be damned, limping his way over to the center where Cas has resurfaced, water pouring off of him in rivers, coughing loudly.

“You out of your fucking mind?” Dean snaps, finally reaching him, tripping over a rock and managing to right himself just before sending them both falling over. Cas clings to him, pulls himself up and Dean steadies him with his hands, supports him despite the pain shooting up his leg.

“ _Zir noco iad Castiel_ ,” Cas says, standing up on wobbly feet. Dean holds him out by the shoulders, making sure he can stand on his own feet, and Cas says it again, “ _Zir noco iad Castiel._ ”

“What is that?” Dean asks. “Is that Enochian? Dude, answer me!”

Cas lifts his hand and opens it. Inside his palm, roughly the size of a tennis ball, is light. Dean squints down at it, tries to look past the bright glow. The outer surface looks like ice, like crystal, but there’s something inside it that’s flowing, swirling around slowly like smoke, shining blue.

Dean blinks at it. “Is that—is that what I think that is?”

A loud crack erupts from somewhere and Cas slumps against him. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat and he looks around frantically, trying to find the source. The red sparrow is back again, watching from a high branch in a tree. The noise sounds again, coming from all sides, from above and below.

“Okay,” Dean says. “I think we gotta move, Cas.”

Cas says something in Enochian.

“Anytime you wanna start speaking English again would be awesome,” Dean says, turning them back to the edge of the water and wincing as another shock of pain shoots up his leg. There’s another crack, somewhere close, and the ground shudders.

He manages to drag Cas out of the water and set him down on the ground, where he continues to mutter, still holding the ball of light tight in his hand. Dean leans him against a nearby tree, turning back to grab his branch when he stops in his tracks.

There’s a man standing at the edge of the water. Unassuming looking—hell, normal. Older, grey, balding. He’s dressed in a plain suit, his hands clasped together in front of him. He smiles, and Dean feels his stomach threaten to empty itself.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” the man says. “It’s _you_.”

“Uh,” Dean says. “Can I help you?”

“‘And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break,’” the man says.

“Right,” Dean says. “Sorry, pal, you must’ve missed the memo. Bible camp was last weekend.”

“Only, that didn’t happen,” the man asks, ignoring him, turning his focus to Cas. “Did it, Castiel?”

“Zachariah,” Cas says, struggling to his feet, using the tree for balance. “How did you find me? This place is protected—I’m protected.”

“Yes, it was,” the man—Zachariah—says. “Really rather annoying, that. See, when you cast yourself from Heaven, we lost track of you, but we knew you would show up eventually. And when you touched your grace it erased all the protection sigils. Your grace is practically glowing like a beacon! Perfectly easy to spot.”

“Who is this dick?” Dean asks.

“I’ve come to collect Castiel and return him to Heaven,” Zachariah says. “There’s a price on his head.”

“It’s corrupt,” Cas says. “Everything. You _lied_ to me. To everyone. You and Michael and Raphael—the destruction it would have caused—”

“Yet your actions decimated Heaven!” Zachariah says. “Thousands of angels died in the war you caused, Castiel! For what? A few measly humans? For _free will?_ Did you not think there would be consequences?”

Dean stares at Cas. Cas doesn’t look at him.

“I won’t let you take me in,” he says.

“Don’t be stupid,” Zachariah says. “Come with me willingly and perhaps I’ll even spare you.”

“No,” Cas says.

“Castiel—”

“That’s your cue to exit stage left, douchebag,” Dean says.

Zachariah looks at him. “And what do you plan on doing about it, monkey-boy?”

Dean pulls his gun out of the back of his jeans and pulls the trigger. The shot rings throughout the forest, loud and echoing above the sound of birds and frogs. The bullet pierces Zachariah in the chest, right through the heart. The hole smokes, blood dripping out. Zachariah merely sighs, rolling his eyes, and runs his hand over his suit, repairing it instantaneously.

“Oh, well. That’s just awesome,” Dean says, letting his hand drop.

“You see what you gave up Heaven for?” Zachariah turns back to Cas. “ _Humanity._ I mean, look at him. He’s pathetic. He’s _weak._ ”

“Don’t,” Cas says. “Don’t you touch him.”

Zachariah looks back to Dean. He smiles again and snaps his fingers and Dean feels his leg re-break. His breathing stops and he hits the ground hard, pain searing, blinding, his vision going fuzzy, his hearing muffled.

When he’s finally able to catch his breath, letting out a sob, he opens his eyes again, it all comes rushing back. The sound of frogs and birds and Cas shouting. He looks up just in time to catch Cas punching Zachariah in the face.

Zachariah merely laughs and grabs him by the throat, slamming him up against a nearby tree. The sparrow takes flight. Cas claws at Zachariah’s hand, kicks at him, bares his teeth, but Zachariah just squeezes tighter, lifts him higher.

“I gave you a chance,” he says. “I mean, I was even going to let you live! Prison isn’t all that bad. There’s even some celebrities. But you’ve always been a stubborn little shit, never quite doing what you’re told.”

Cas opens his mouth, starting to go weak in Zachariah’s grasp, the fight going out of him. Dean rolls onto his side, reaches out for his gun again—even if it doesn’t work, it’ll offer a distraction.

“So maybe I should just put you down,” Zachariah says.

Dean watches as Zachariah’s other hand moves to his suit jacket, reaching in to grab something. Dean’s fingers brush the barrel of his gun and he pulls it towards him with a growl, hands shaking as he tries to turn it the right way.

There’s the sound of air moving around him, a shout, and then an explosion of light, a high-pitched whistling sound that quickly becomes deafening. Dean clenches his eyes closed and throws his arms over his head, curling up into a ball. Something starts burning, the smell of flesh and hair making him gag, his heart thundering in his chest and his stomach rolling.

The light fades in an instant, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.


	16. Chapter 16

He can’t open his eyes. He should—he knows he should—he should use his gun, or try and crawl away under a bush, try to hide. But he can’t. The pain in his leg is verging on unbearable, and the last thing he wants to see is Cas lying dead and that smug bastard smiling down at him. Worse, if he opens his eyes he might find himself utterly, completely alone, Cas’s body having been dragged back to Heaven and Dean left here to rot.

Dean pulls at his hair and tries to keep breathing.

Something soft presses against his hand, gentle. He holds his breath, waiting for pain, waiting for Zachariah to snap him in half. His leg starts to itch, either the shock setting in or he’s losing consciousness. He waits for it, for the darkness, for the quiet, but instead his leg starts to tingle and go numb, and then—nothing. No pain, no stiffness, none of that quiet ache he’s dealt with for years.

Dean opens his eyes and lifts his head, looking up. Hannah looks down at him. Behind her Cas is sitting up, rubbing at his throat with his hand, watching Dean closely. Zachariah lies dead on the ground in front of him. Burned into the grass on either side of his shoulders, in long, sweeping arcs, are the shape of wings.

Dean’s breath shakes out of him. “W-what.”

“I’ve healed your wound for you,” Hannah says.

Dean gets up off the ground, legs weak but otherwise fine. He pulls up the leg of his jeans, still wet from the pond. His knee is smooth, skin unblemished, free from scarring. He lets his the leg roll down again. Cas comes to stand next to him, laying a steadying hand on his back.

“Hannah,” he says.

“Castiel,” she nods. “And Dean. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself to you properly. I’m—”

“An angel,” Dean says. “Yeah, kinda got that. You here for Cas’s grace, too?”

“No,” Hannah shakes her head. “Cas’s grace is his to do with as he pleases.”

“Funny. Your buddy didn’t seem to agree with that,” Dean says. 

“Because I lead the rebellion that caused a war against him and our superiors,” Cas says. “I have blood on my hands, and everything that’s happened up there in my absence is a result of what I did.”

“And if you hadn’t, Lucifer would have walked free and Earth would be destroyed,” Hannah says. “You protected what we were created to protect. Many of us see that as the actions of an angel doing his duty.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Can, uh. Can someone fill me in, here?”

“Heaven was corrupted. Several of our superiors planned on purposely setting Lucifer free from his cage in order to start an Apocalypse,” Cas says. “When your father died and you and Sam parted ways, it threw a—a wrench in the gear, so to speak. Raphael planned on forcing you both to follow your path, removing your free will. I found out. I told everyone the truth. Some believed me, some didn’t.”

“What the hell do me and Sam have to do with the Apocalypse?” Dean asks.

“Everything,” Cas says. “The battle was to be on Earth. Michael and Lucifer needed vessels. That was to be you and Sam.”

Dean swallows.

Hannah looks at him. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

Dean frowns at her. “Uh. Seen what?”

“The divine path, the one Heaven wanted you on,” Hannah says. “What your life would have been like had you and your brother not changed course. Lilith killed you with her hellhounds. Alastair tortured you in Hell, where you broke the first seal. Castiel resurrected you. You dug yourself out of your grave.”

Dean tenses. “How the hell do you know that?”

“A little bird told me,” Hannah says.

A little—fuck.

“The sparrow,” Dean says.

“I sent her to keep guard on Castiel,” Hannah says. “I never anticipated that Castiel would be so drawn to you. I suppose that could be because you were to be assigned his charge, had things gone as planned.”

“Funny, and here I thought he just liked my ass.”

“Those nightmares you had,” Hannah continues. “They weren’t dreams. They were visions. An effect of living within Castiel’s grace, I imagine.”

“So, in this other life—on this other path, or whatever—Cas would’ve pulled me from Hell?”

“Yes,” Hannah says.

“Huh,” Dean says.

“I sought Castiel out in hopes to return him to Heaven—safely,” Hannah says. “I found him completely by accident. Once I realized his condition, I instead found myself compelled to protect him from those who sought him for less amiable means.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Well, cookie for you.”

“And now?” Cas asks.

Hannah turns her attention back to him. “I’m here to offer you a choice.”

Dean looks at Cas, who frowns.

“Heaven needs a leader, Castiel,” Hannah says. “There are many of us who still believe in you.”

“Hannah—” Cas shakes his head.

“I know, you’ve been human for a few years. I understand that you may have…” she looks to Dean, then clears her throat. “Other interests.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. Cas swallows, staring at a patch of grass close to Hannah’s boots.

“But the choice is yours,” she says. “Whatever you decide, I will honor it.”

 

///

 

Dean leans his head against a tree, keeping his eyes closed, listening to the frogs. He keeps stretching his leg, bending his knee, pressing his fingers to the bone to make sure it’s really healed. To make sure it won’t hurt him anymore.

Footsteps move towards him, rustling past the trees. He opens his eyes. Cas steps through the bush and Dean pushes himself away from the tree, coming up to meet him. Cas licks his lips and grabs his hand, and Dean feels something cool, something jagged press against his palm, Cas closing his fingers around it. When he looks down he sees blue light shining through his fingers.

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” Dean asks. “I mean—fuck. You’re an angel, Cas.”

“Not a very good one,” Cas says.

“That’s bullshit,” Dean says. “The way Hannah was describing it, it sounds like you were one of the only good ones up there. Apparently she ain’t the only one who feels that way.”

“I can’t be a leader,” Cas says. “I can’t—after everything I did, even if it was for what I—what I feel is a good cause. I’m not a leader. Angels die when I lead. More angels than I can count.”

“You stopped the Apocalypse,” Dean says. “You stopped me and Sammy from becoming angel suits.”

“Yes. And for that alone, it—” Cas sighs, looks down. “With Raphael and Zachariah dead, and Michael in the wind, their numbers will dwindle. Heaven can begin repairing itself, but Hell is still after my grace. I fear the lengths demons will go to find it.”

Cas squeezes his hand closed again, holding his fingers tight against the shape of his grace. The thing practically hums against his skin.

“Please,” he says.

“Cas,” Dean says. “I don’t know how.”

“The blade,” Cas says. “It’s an angel blade. It’s the only thing that can kill an angel.”

“Is that gonna kill you?” Dean says.

Cas looks up at him and gives him a small smile. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

 

///

 

At first nothing happens.

Dean puts all his weight into the knife, stabbing it through the ball of light, pinning it to the ground. The blue smoke creeps out in tendrils and the whole thing starts to glow, white-hot. There’s an explosion of light, a high-pitched whistle, but it dies down again just as quickly as before.

Cas thankfully doesn’t fall dead to the ground, and in place of the ball of light lies a scored patch of grass. Dean tucks the blade back into his jacket and looks over at Cas.

“You feeling okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Cas says.

“Is that it?” Dean asks.

Cas frowns. “I’m not sure.”

Then he hears it. A loud crack, louder than before, so loud it shakes the entire forest. Above them the light suddenly flickers and goes out with a snap, casting the entire garden into darkness. The shaking continues, a rumble growling up from under them.

“Fuck, this ain’t good,” Dean says.

A tree breaks and falls a few feet ahead of them, sending a cloud of leaves blowing across the ground. Then another, and another, something loud splashing in the stream nearby. The whole thing’s falling apart.

Cas reaches out and grabs Dean by the wrist. “We need to go.”

They run back towards the path, tripping over roots. The ground moves under them, the air itself feeling like it’s cracking, getting tighter and harder to breathe. More trees fall around them, crashing to the ground, blocking their path. Dean skids to a stop and nearly falls, Cas managing to keep him upright, pulling him closer.

“Back-up plan?” Dean asks.

“Uh,” Cas says.

“Awesome,” Dean says, turning around, trying to find an alternate route they can take. Or a hole they can bury themselves in and hope this is just the garden redecorating itself. He takes a step forward and nearly runs face-first into Hannah.

Flashing him a smile, she reaches out, grabbing him by the shoulder.

 

///

 

The first thing he feels is wet grass against his palms and rain on his face. The next is overwhelming vertigo, his stomach rolling and his head dizzy. He collapses onto his side, the grass tickling his skin. He coughs and gags and tries not to get sick, closing his eyes. The sensation slowly starts to dissipate.

“Dean,” Cas says, and Dean feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Ugh,” Dean says.

“Get up,” Cas shakes his shoulder gently.

Dean opens his eyes. Beyond the blades of grass, he can see a set of familiar-looking tires resting on wet gravel. Carefully he rolls to his hands, sitting up, his head still swimming. He blinks a few times.

“I’ll be damned,” he says.

He turns to Cas, who smiles at him, getting off the ground and helping him up. Dean laughs out loud, still a little wobbly, and Cas holds him steady, leaning against his side.

The cabin sits in one piece in front of them. Upstairs at the front, there’s only one window.

 

///

 

Inside, everything looks normal. There are no new windows, no new strange closets sitting where they shouldn’t be. All the repairs are still in place, the floors and the counters, the bathroom, everything. The weird closet in the hallway is gone, and only one of the extra windows—one at the side—remains in Dean’s bedroom, giving the room more light.

The door in the kitchen is gone. Dean presses his hand against the wall. There’s no tug, no tickle in his ribs, no strange feeling like something is trying to pull him in. It’s just a wall.

“How?” Dean asks. “This place was falling apart.”

“Hannah, I imagine,” Cas says.

The front door slams open and Sam greets them with his gun out.

He blinks at them, lowering it. “Dean?”

“Glad to see college didn’t make your instincts flabby,” Dean says.

Sam nearly barrels him over with the force of his hug, crushing the air out of his ribs, his gun still out—which is unnerving, but then Dean’s kind of used to it. He laughs breathlessly and claps Sam on the back, pulling away.

“You’ve been gone almost a week!” Sam says, setting his gun down on the table and staring at him, hand still on his shoulder, unwilling to let go. “What the hell happened down there, are you okay? Did you find the—”

“Dude, slow down. One question at a time,” Dean holds up his hands. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over pizza, okay? Did anything happen here?”

“You mean aside from everyone freaking out, me especially? Not really,” Sam says. “I thought I heard a noise in the back so I went out to check. When I came back the door was open and you guys were in here.”

Dean nods. “Where’s everybody else?” 

“They’ve been checking in. They’re all at work. They’ll be glad to hear we can call off the search party,” Sam says. “Cain left Ellen a message, by the way. Thanking her for her help. Didn’t want her to get dragged into his mess, I guess.”

“That was nice,” Dean says. “For a demon.”

“Bobby’s going to want to see you,” Sam says. “And Ellen and Jo, and—”

“Whoa, hey,” Dean says. “I just got back. Let me shower and eat first, okay?”

“Sorry. Just—I was worried,” Sam says.

“I know, Sammy.”

Cas clears his throat.

“I, uh. I should go,” he says. “Make sure my cats are still alive. And, uh. Sleep, I think.”

Dean frowns at him. “You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t leave on account of us,” Sam says. “You’re welcome to stay, man.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, looking between them. “Both of you.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “We’ll talk later, right?”

Cas nods. “Of course.”

Dean watches him go, fighting the urge to go after him. He bites his lip and looks away, back to Sam, who offers a sympathetic smile but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

 

///

 

They go into town for pizza and to make their rounds, Sam showing Dean off to everyone like he’s a damn prom date. First is Bobby, who whacks Dean upside the head before pulling him into a hug, then asks a billion and one questions about the nature of angels and their grace.

He gets pretty much the same treatment from Ellen and Jo, Ash listening in and nodding along, still fighting with the translation program. Charlie and Kevin recall details of staying in Dean’s cabin without him there, and only give details of Sam freaking out when Dean buys them both drinks. Donna just shakes her head and shudders, saying she’s glad it’s over with.

It’s late by the time they head back, Sam driving annoyingly safe, keeping to the speed limit. Like he’s terrified they’ll go off the road and die so shortly after Dean’s come back. Dean rests his head against the window, exhausted and looking forward to sleeping in a real bed.

“So we were going to be vessels for Michael and Lucifer?” Sam asks. “Like, _the_ Michael and Lucifer?”

“Apparently,” Dean says.

“Wow,” Sam shakes his head. “That’s pretty messed up. I mean, even for us.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says. “See, Sammy. This whole thing could’ve been avoided if only you didn’t go back to college.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Sam says. “Then we’d have an Apocalypse on our hands.”

Dean snorts and lets his head drop against the window again. Sam fidgets, glancing over to him.

“So. You and Cas,” he says.

“Leave it,” Dean says.

“No, man. I just mean—you were supposed to go to Hell. And he was supposed to pull you out of it,” Sam says. “That’s pretty hardcore. I mean, divine intervention or not, maybe you guys were just meant to meet.”

Dean watches the trees go by in a blur.

 

///

 

Waiting until morning is nearly impossible. Dean reads on the back porch until he physically can’t stay awake any longer, and after spending a good twenty minutes fidgeting at the kitchen table during breakfast, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his coffee mug, eyeing his bottle of whiskey, Sam glares at him and practically shoves him out the front door.

Theseus and Daedalus watch him as he climbs Cas’s front steps, sitting together on the porch railing. Dean scratches Daedalus behind the ears as he passes, stopping in front of the door. He raises his hand to knock just as it opens, Cas coming to an abrupt halt in front of him, steaming mug in hand.

“Oh,” he says.

“Uh,” Dean says. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Cas says. His hair is all over the place, but he at least changed out of his old clothes.

Dean clears his throat, taking a step back and looking down at his boots. “So. Rebel angel. Stopped the Apocalypse. In the end, decided to stay human. That’s kinda one last Fuck You to Heaven, ain’t it?”

“I suppose you could look at it that way,” Cas says.

“I do,” Dean says. “It’s badass. And all kinds of hot.”

Cas’s mouth twitches. Dean licks his lips.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asks.

Cas frowns at him. “Well, the Fate sisters exist, if that’s what you mean. But last I heard they did very little in regards to actual intervention. More cleaned up the mess if something went wrong.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “So, you and me—I mean, me being Michael’s vessel, you being my—guardian, or whatever. Sam and me diverting the Apocalypse, you falling and meeting me anyway? What do you call that?”

Cas hums. “Bad luck?”

Dean stares at him and Cas drinks out of his mug.

“You’re a dick.”

“Yes,” Cas says. “And yet here you are, still talking to me.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve got bad taste.”

“Touché,” Cas says.

Dean grins at him and Cas returns it.

“So what now?” Dean asks, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets and leaning against the railing. Cas’s eyes wander past his shoulder, down the road, over the trees, contemplative.

“Has your opinion on gardens changed at all?” he asks.

“Not really,” Dean says. “Just as long as I don’t have to camp out in one anytime soon.”

“Well then,” Cas says. “I suppose we’ve got a vegetable garden to start planting.”

 

///

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings include:** violence, (non-graphic) torture scene involving eye trauma, mentions of drug use/addiction, mentions of mental illness, alcoholism, psychological horror, angst, and a horrible butchering of Greek mythology that I’m 99% positive I read in high school. Despite all that, I promise this fic has a happy ending!
> 
> \+ Thank you to [elfyne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elfyne), [radialarch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch), and [goddessdster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdster) for the betaing, French translation, and all the encouragement. <3


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